Have you reached the party?

"Ernestine, we have a problem."

My oldest called me last night to let me know he was reading my email updates about his grandfather in the hospital. He told me I had obviously flipped the switch and gone into my heavy duty Mission Control mode.

I'm a mom. I've been in Mission Control training most of my adult life. I've got badges for Time Coordinator, Planning Specialist, Logistics Engineer, Communications Hub Advanced Training, Terrain Tech, and Encoding/Decoding Operations, although not for Weightlessness Counseling. If I could just get my hands on one of those Mars Rovers, there'd be no problem programming it to sift through the debris on my youngest's bedroom floor in search of evidence of life.

My sister and I could team up to out-FEMA any Bush appointee on crisis and disaster relief. Homeland insecurity? Put the wagons in a circle! When we got word that Dad had fallen and broken his femur, we were instantly marshalling forces from all across the country's time zones, setting up communication chains, and procuring emergency transportation. She was in charge of children, pets, and paratroopers. I was in charge of MREs--Maybe Recognizable Edibles, fact-checking, and press releases. Thank heaven none of this was necessary, but we could have had banks of porta-potties set up outside any sports arena in this country AND ensured that each one would have both Northern Quilted toilet paper and a Purel dispenser.

My dad's mother worked as the night telephone company operator in a small, northeastern Nebraska town in the middle of the twentieth century. I felt Halma's presence as I did what I could long distance for her son. She might have been surprised at the technology, but not at the motivation.

I used to be phone-a-phobic, and I'm still phone-adverse most of the time. When it really matters, though, I can talk on my cellphone, check messages on the home phone, type lower case emails, and wear my Skype headphones all at the same time!



It was good to hear about my oldest's progress at his new full-time position. He turns twenty-four this week. He seemed a little down about it. Every phase of his life until now had a specific time allotted; seven years of elementary school, three years of middle school, two years of high school, two years of senior high, four years of undergraduate, two years of grad school. Now a very long road stretches before him of grown-up full-time responsibility; over forty hours a week for over forty years. He has crossed the line into the middle stage of life, where we are citizens, members, parents, and worker bees, subscribing to the governing rules for family, job, community, and nation.

At almost exactly his age, I hit an emotional speed bump. I was sitting at a table at an outdoor wedding reception when I suddenly realized I was "grown-up", but that the status did not have any of the wisdom or privileges I'd always assumed. It was like searching for nonexistent answers in the back of the math book. Shouldn't at least the odd-numbered questions have the answers?

Though the thresholds aren't as clearly demarcated, "grown-up" adulthood gradually shifts into wonderful mature stages of learning, loving, being internally governed instead of externally controlled, becoming traveling minstrels, sages, crones, and fools. Yes, Ernestine, I have reached the party. The answers still aren't in the back of the book, but I can choose my own questions.

Happy birthday, son.

Alternative building materials and construction methods

Growing up my favorite Laura Ingalls Wilder book by far was On the Banks of Plum Creek. Laura and her family lived in a sod dugout by the creek while Pa built their house. I may need to read it again. Yesterday I was searching for the missing candlestick holder from Grandma's buffet set (something I do unsuccessfully once or twice every year), and there in the WAAAAAAAAYYYYY back of the cupboard was an unopened package of Kraft marshmallows hardened into a perfect block.

Should I call FEMA? Kraft's website reports that more than ninety million pounds of JetPuffed marshmallows are purchased in America every year. What if President Bush asked every American to look deeply into their kitchen cupboards and make this personal sacrifice? What if only a small percentage of negligent homemakers found petrified marshmallow blocks? Just a teensy weensy percentage of what gets forgotten in cupboards would be enough petrified marshmallow blocks to construct new homes for thousands of disaster survivors at a fraction of the cost of those cruise ships. I am ready to lead this national drive!

In Nebraska, every school child learns about sod house construction, and about the can-do spirit of the homesteaders in history class. They learn early how the Plains Indians used the entire bison, and how beavers build dams.

Recently I encountered the word "crannog", and thought it was a misprint for cranberry bog. Instead it was a fascinating, ancient and modern building form. Google it yourself and see! That led me to wattle and daub*, cob construction, straw bale construction, and rammed earth.

*Wattle and daub, noun: (According to the American Heritage Dictionary of English Language: 4th Edition, 2000) a building material consisting of interwoven rods and laths or twigs plastered with mud or clay, used especially in the construction of simple dwellings or as an infill between members of a timber-frame wall.

I've always had a fascination with yurts and other forms of nomadic housing. I knew about Buckminster Fuller's geodesic domes before I started kindergarten. Later, like many people my age, I had an "organic cousin" who wanted to build a house by hand. That's when I overheard his discussion with his engineer uncle about tilt-up concrete construction, and sprayed concrete dome construction.

It might have been in Ken Kesey's Sailor Song environmental apocalypse novel that I read of an outcast community built in and of a rubber tire landfill. Tires may not be the healthiest building material, or even smell very nice, but in a pinch they would do. The same could be said for marshmallows.

In Off the Map, eleven year-old Bo Groden keeps her "organic" family supplied with Moon Pies and other junk food by writing letters to manufacturers complaining about bugs found in their products. She receives cases of the products to keep her a satisfied consumer. I received a case of beer once by writing a letter including the seaweed-like item I nearly swallowed. Therefore, I could be considered a paid professional writer! Look in your cupboards for petrified Moon Pies, too.

Let's think for a moment about all those millions of plastic water bottles littering the sidelines of every youth sporting event across this wasteful country of ours. Fill those bottles with sand, or better, minced and diced packing peanuts. Recap them. Begin laying them side by side, lid by lid, on the ground, then layering them like a clay coil pot. See a structure emerge worthy of Andy Goldsworthy and Robert Smithson. On the interior, cover the surface with a pulp made from wet Dallas Morning News advertising circulars and Fashion/D! sections mixed with Elmer's. On the outside, perhaps something more permanent, more able to withstand natural disasters....not concrete....melted marshmallows!



As my organic cousin's engineer uncle might tell me, "You're daffy, but you're doing one heckuva job!" Maybe the President is roasting marshmallows at Camp David this weekend in the spirit of national sacrifice. Best of all, JetPuffed marshmallows are a fat free food!

FEMA vacancy

Known many Girl Scouts and Camp Fire Girls with more ability to run a disaster relief operation than George W's horses assn. buddy Mike Brown. First thing we learned about survival as Camp Fire Girls was to paint wooden matches with nail polish and store them in a metal Band-Aid box.

It's time for a woman to take charge of FEMA, George, even if the Coast Guard's Thad Allen and the Army's "Ragin' Cajun" handle the actual muddy shoes stuff. Women prepare for every contingency, George, every worst case scenario, everyday. My walking partner and I explored this concept as we waddled along our normal route Sunday. "A woman," my buddy explained, "would have made sure their were plenty of toilets. She would have trucked in the porta-potties first thing!"

• Most women have enough stuff in their purse to get a family through a weekend of lost luggage.
• Most women pack the luggage for a trip so that they have survival attire for every temperature between -10 F and 110 F.
• Many women can sing forty-seven imaginative verses of "Old MacDonald" for all the kids stranded on a freeway overpass at the same time they arrange transportation and carpools for the whole first grade class.
• Many women can arrange the luggage in the car trunk so there is enough room for Grandma's soup tureen, carefully packed full of spare socks and undies. This is at the same time their spouses are helping with the emergency evacuation by putting a six pack of Diet Coke into the freezer so will be sure to explode before departure.
• Women like to have important medical records at their fingertips. My kids have all left home, but I still have photocopies of their immunization records in my purse. I must admit I no longer have the bottle of Triaminic and the plastic spoon in the Ziplock bag in my purse. Just last year I quit carrying a photo of my ex in case I needed to ever show it to police. That is what I consider being prepared.
• Women can think a full day ahead, and have supplies and a Plan B in case their pantyhose run or the baby spits up on their shoulder.
• Women can plan a week ahead, and know which day the soccer team treats are needed. They can figure out which day is best to whip into Sam's to get the juice boxes and peanut butter crackers, with time to spare before preschool dismisses. They can keep a mental holographic chart of days, activities, field locations, transportation arrangements, and game times for up to six children.
• Women can think a minimum of one month ahead, and be prepared for inconvenient surprises. Call it a biological logistics advantage.

I don't wish to make light of the situation in the Gulf States, but I do think most women are better at emergency preparedness than men. I know all moms have more experience with crisis management than Michael Brown. Moms always have that barf bag stuffed under the car seat for when the Road of Life is twisty, congested, and under stinky water. They've been that way since their toddler first smelled the feedlot on the way to Grandma's house.

Now let's all sing that song about the duckies in the rain while we pick up the litter and put it in Mr. Trashcan. Would you like a cough drop? I just happen to have one... If I dig deep enough, I can probably find the accordian-folded rain bonnet that I started carrying in 1964. Looks to me like that levee might need some reinforcing. I'll have the kids put mud in all my old pantyhose, and we can fill that breach.

Good medicine

There are times in our lives when we all need fast-acting, long-lasting, deep-healing Laugh Therapy. If I were in charge of FEMA or the Red Cross, I would be showing the Muppets First Season dvd on the JumboTron in every basketball arena or domed stadium turned refugee center. And I would have people reading James Herriot stories aloud 24/7 in some quiet hallway. If you've ever been "crackerdog", or gone "flopbot", you know that a story may be just what you need. We are never too old to benefit from listening to a well-read story.

I have never been as ill as I was ten years ago with pleurisy. The memory of my son reading James Herriot stories to me during that horrible time is one I will always treasure. It hurt to laugh, just as it hurt to cough, but every laugh he and I shared gave me strength to heal.

To stay healthy, we all need the RDA dose of laughing every single day, along with that apple to keep the doctor away, the dried apricot for cowboy regularity, and the carrot so we can see in the dark. We all need the Muppet Swedish chef as much as we need real comfort food.

What's the story this time?

Having just seen the Uncommander In Chief tell reporters on the White House lawn that federal response to the Katrina catastrophe has been "not acceptable", I have to wonder what book he's been reading in what classroom this week!

"...I'm looking forward to my trip down there and looking forward to thanking those on the ground and looking forward to assure people that we'll get on top of this situation and we're going to help people who need help.
Thank you. That's it." Transcript

Grab that case of shoestring potatoes!

First thing this morning I turned on the t.v. to check on Hurricane Katrina and the evacuees inside the Superdome like many folks all over the country. New Orleans is one place I've actually been in person, not just through the eyes of some fictional caterer/amateur detective. New Orleans is a foreign, wondrous, decadent, humid city of fascinating history and insects the size and weight of a bowling bag. It is also the site of national Whiz Quiz tournaments which, despite their popularity and importance, have never been held in the Superdome.

The Superdome is even bigger than the insects. Sure, it was many years ago when my then-spouse insisted we go for a run around the Superdome SEVERAL times, but I bet it hasn't shrunk. That sucker is monstrous, and jogging in New Orleans is like doing water aerobics in a kettle of boiling crawdads. I hold New Orleans in my fond memory. I'm mostly over wanting to put my ex in a kettle of boiling crawdads.

Sunday night I watched footage of the evacuees waiting in lines to get into the Superdome carrying their trashbags of food and clothing. Then this morning they had dim light but NO A/C! Those poor people, I thought, remembering my eldest's high school graduation held inside sweltering Texas Stadium. If I felt trapped sitting through the ceremony for the largest high school class to ever graduate in Texas, with concession stands selling H2O for $3/bottle, imagine how they must feel sitting out the storm. I had the luxury of knowing that the parade of students across the platform would eventually reach the Z's, although I did have on pantyhose, which counted double for suffering. Please don't let any folks in the hot, muggy Superdome have on pantyhose!

I had just worn nylons for the first time at my sixth grade promotion in late May of 1967. The nylons were "Suntan", and my dress for the occasion was a lovely Monet blue and lavender voile. My mantra was, "Don't lock your knees. Don't lock your knees. You won't faint and fall off the risers if you don't lock your knees."


1967 was Nebraska's statehood centennial. My pal and I were going to attend the Nebraska Camp Fire Girls Centennial Camporee in Lincoln's lovely, shady Pioneers Park. It was going to be "real" tent camping for hundreds of girls, with educational bus trips to the major sites of the Capitol City.

There's a definite lack on web information on this event, despite my best search efforts. Using the rainfall statistics for Lancaster County at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln's High Plains Climate Center, along with the perpetual calendar in my loyal World Almanac, I suspect that the Camporee began on Sunday, June fourth. On the first full day of the week-long event, all the campers rode school buses into town to visit the Historical Society Museum, the State Capitol building with its Unicameral Chamber, the Governor's Mansion, the Folsom Children's Zoo, and the Sunken Gardens. After about the second educational tourist attraction this adventure had become a torture of searing bus seats and delays for hungry, thirsty, bored, irritable girls in navy shorts and white blouses.



Finally we boarded the buses to ride back out to the campsite. Recognition had dawned that we would continue to be hot, sweaty, bored, irritable, and itchy inside the canvas tents while counselors stirred big pots of hamburger stew made with Lipton dried soup packets, mixed the Tang, and got out loaves of Wonder Bread. The darkening sky matched our moods.

The storm came in suddenly, whipping the tent flaps and pouring down rain. The rain felt pretty good, but then the tents started falling down on us. The counselors couldn't make supper. They had to herd all the girls into the concrete park restrooms at the back of the concession stand. We could hear the tornado sirens. A couple adults held transistor radios to their ears. We kept packing closer together, standing inside the restrooms, scared, still itchy, thirsty, and hungry, and horrified about being in the MENS. Sirens, lightning, thunder, loose pieces of clothes and paper flying around. Then a lull. A brave young woman ran out through the rain, wind, and mud to what was left of the mess tent. She was bringing us provisions! She was bringing us a case of canned shoestring potatoes! It was just like a chapter from Little House on the Prairie or On the Banks of Plum Creek! We were going to huddle together budgeting our precious, limited supply of salty, greasy, potato sticks as the rain poured down even harder. We would gradually rotate so that each member of the group would get a turn to sip a bit of water from their cupped hand at the dirty sink of the MENS restroom.

In those primitive days there were no cell phones. Somehow, someone sort of in charge managed to get word to the city that the camp was a wreck. The Lincoln National Guard sent buses to load all the campers and the rest of the shoestring potatoes to ride to the armory. We each got a cot, and a PB sandwich. We didn't sleep well, still being soggy, and not knowing where we were.

After a few days at the armory, and a volunteer work detail back out to the campsite to load all the wet belongings into National Guard buses, I found a way to contact my parents so they could pick me up. All organization for the Camporee had broken down. No FEMA, no Plan B. And not enough shoestring potatoes!

Sending visualizations of shoestring potatoes to everyone in the Superdome tonight...