Getting My Hopes Up

Two years ago around Valentine's Day, Brett and I took our first real kid-free vacation since having kids. We decided to go back to Snowshoe Mountain in West Virginia for a week of skiing.

We had been there once before when I worked at Sandestin, another Intrawest-owned resort. I had received a free two-night/three day ski package in a beautiful one-bedroom condo in the center of their mountain-top village. We had a great time and I couldn't wait to come back.

In 2008 we finally decided the boys were old enough for us to leave them while we returned to Snowshoe for five days of skiing. We decided to make the most of our vacation by going through Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

We went tent camping (!) in the mountains (!!) in February (!!!). I wore my fuzzy blue bathrobe and my headband to bed and remained quite cozy. Brett's sock hat had fallen off during the night leaving his shaved head exposed.


We spent the next day driving through the Blue Ridge Parkway.

By the time that we got to Shenandoah National Park, the little cold that Brett had felt coming on the day before had worsened.

As soon as we got to the Inn at Snowshoe, Brett put himself to bed with pneumonia and stayed there most of the week.

He drugged himself as best he could with DayQuil and managed to hit the slopes a few times.

For the most part, I was left on my own. I still enjoyed myself, but I was lonely without him, and felt sorry that he was feeling so bad.

As we left Snowshoe Brett said, "I never want to see this place again." And I believed him. He had been miserable. It was arguably the worst vacation he had ever had.

We still receive promotional e-mails and brochures from Snowshoe from time to time. With all of the snow on the East Coast that has been in the news lately, Brett recently wondered aloud, "How much snow do you think Snowshoe has gotten this year?" Then he said, "Hey! Do you want to skiing?" I quickly and enthusiastically responded, "YES!" even though I knew he was only joking.

The next day Brett started looking at their web site and suggested that I give them a call to find out more about the rates and ski packages. I still didn't think he was serious until he called me the next afternoon (he never calls me!) and asked if I checked the rates yet.

After discussing the rates together I confided in Brett that I was in serious danger of getting my hopes up; I was starting to feel the excitement of a possible ski vacation rising in my chest. He replied, "Don't do that. Don't get your hopes up." Oh, but I have!

When Brett asked me the next day if I had called his parents to see if they could watch the boys, I knew he was completely serious.

Today sealed the deal. We are going skiing again! At Snowshoe! Even though Brett swore that I would never have that special privilege again on account of how miserable he was the last time! We leave in just over one week.

All I can say is, we better have a fabulous time. Otherwise Brett will hold true to his promise of no future ski trips to Snowshoe. And I don't want that to happen. Wish us luck!

Free Roam

For most of my elementary school years my family lived down a paved one-lane road that led to a dead-end dirt road with only three homes. I was so jealous of my friend Elizabeth who lived in a real neighborhood that was always bustling with activity whenever I went to her house. It seemed as if half the kids in our school lived in that development. I was stuck with only my siblings to play with. Actually, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. Having a big family has some benefits, and having playmates in the form of a sister one year younger and two older brothers is one of them. (My two youngest siblings were still babies and never got to enjoy our home in Mass. like we did. Sorry, Lisa.)

I also feel lucky now that there were so many places outdoors that we were able to explore:

The huge boulders along "the lane" were perfect for climbing on (except when they became overgrown with poison ivy). One relatively flat boulder we nicknamed "table rock." It was so named because of the many picnics my sister and I had there.

The stone wall in the back of our property was another fun place to climb down or sit on.

Our small back yard was covered in violets during the summer. My brother Don, who has always been interested in trying new foods, even used them once to make about a half gallon of violet syrup.

I used to love playing in the "secret room" under the huge weeping willow tree in our side yard (until it became infested with ticks).

Our side yard was a nice size for playing baseball. One Sunday my grandparents came to visit, and after church we all played baseball together. My grandmother pitched the ball to my dad. The ball came right back and hit my grandmothers face, breaking her glasses. It was said, "That's what we get for playing on the Sabbath."

There was a round cement covered well in that side yard. It became a bench where I used to sit and wait for dragonflies to come to me.

I could never understand why anyone would plant an apple tree that produced fruit you couldn't eat. We had a crabapple tree in our front yard, and although the apples were nasty it did make a fun climbing tree. I hung upside down from its branches many a time.

My mother made quite a garden at that house. She had a big herb garden filled with good smelling plants. She also planted flowers along the walkways. We had beautiful tulips, pansies, johnny jump-ups, and many more.

My dad planted a vegetable garden, and come harvest time we ate zucchini and yellow squash at least every other night! One year my parents encouraged each of us kids to pick a vegetable, find a spot of land, and plant our seeds. I had no vision of what one little seed could become. I planted my entire packet of green bean seeds in one square foot of soil. It didn't take too long to realize that was a mistake.

Behind our property was a patch of blackberry bushes growing wild. We were motivated to pick a bowlful to eat them over vanilla ice cream.

Beyond the blackberry bushes was "the pond" which was fun to explore during the warmer weather. One summer we went out on a small inflatable raft, but I was a little freaked out about touching the water after I discovered it had leeches. One memorable day while my mom was away, my brother and sister floated in the raft while my other brother played cannonball. He missed his target (the water surrounding their raft) and hit my sister instead. My mom pulled up right after the ambulance arrived. All turned out well, but that is a day none of us will forget.

I loved the pussy willow tree by the pond and often cut small branches to bring back home.

The pond always froze in the winter, and we had countless hours of fun ice skating. We would bring a shovel and carve out roads and paths to skate through. Skating on the pond in the evening was one of the most peaceful and magical times in my life.

We also explored the woods on the other side of the dirt road from our house. We occasionally came across old abandoned cars and other junk. I liked to look for soft patches of fuzzy green moss. The "sand pit" was another fun place to play. In the winter it made a great sledding hill for my brothers. (I was a little nervous about crashing into a tree.)

If we went far enough we would reach the golf course. I stayed away from the golf course, afraid that I might get into trouble for trespassing. I did go out on the golf course one evening and managed to get lost with my brother. It was well after dark before we made it back home. That was the first and last time I did that.

I'm sure that my mom was happy to have us kids out of the house and our from under her feet. She had a conch shell that she would blow to summon us back home. In fact, she had a system for calling us back. One long call meant that everyone should come home; one short call was a special request for David; two short calls for Don; three short calls for me; and four short calls for Jen (birth order, of course). It seems kind of odd looking back at it now. But at the time it really made perfect sense. The sound of the conch shell carried quite far.

I originally started this post planning to talk about my current neighborhood. But I started thinking about the home of my childhood and got carried away. So many good memories I have, none of which I have recorded anywhere until now.

My kids don't have the same opportunities for free roam that I had, but I'm happy where we are and I hope they are too. More on that tomorrow.

Neighborhood Posse

"Yesterday" (a week ago) I got sidetracked and spent my post reminiscing about my childhood home. What I really wanted to talk about was how grateful I am for my current home and neighborhood.

We live on a relatively quiet dead-end street. We know quite a few of our neighbors and like most all of them. That wasn't always the case.

One of my neighbors recently asked me if I remembered my former next-door neighbor, "Crazy Sarah." Do I remember? Oh, do I! She is the one who was calling the cops over to her house at least once a week. She also called Child Services on us for neglecting our five children and for running a meth lab--this before we even had kids! At first it was funny, in a ridiculous sort of way. Then I started to get scared about what might happen if we did have kids and she kept making these absurd accusations. Fortunately, her family had Sarah committed in Alabama, and the family that bought her house have turned out to be great neighbors.

We also had a few run-ins with the neighbor on the other side of Sarah. They looked at us as being a little trashy (so maybe we are, a little). They owned the nicest house on the block and were bothered that the rest of the neighborhood didn't have the time and finances to maintain as perfectly groomed a lawn as they did. They also didn't like where we stored our garbage can outside, and they were sure that we were the reason they couldn't sell their house (not that the economy or their high asking price were the problem...). The husband tried to pressure Brett into making certain changes, which only caused Brett to want to go out of his way to annoy this neighbor. We managed to solve that problem by having Brett's brother move here from Virginia and buy the house.

Since our "problem-neighbors" have been taken care of, our family has been free to enjoy our good and peaceful street. So, who are the people in my neighborhood? Let me tell you.

First of all, did I mention that Brett's brother lives two doors down, compete with one of my favorite sisters-in-law and two nieces the perfect age for babysitting? And, they have a Wii (big attraction with my boys).

Brett's parents also live just a one-minute walk away, across the fairway. My boys have three loving homes that they can hop back and forth between.

Although she doesn't live on our street, Oma and Papa's neighbor Missy Hall has been a dear family friend for years. She doesn't have grandchildren of her own and absolutely loves the Wendel boys and Wendel girls.

We have some older folks on our street and we are so fortunate that they are not of the "old and crotchety" variety. Karl and Helen are the sweetest old couple, about eighty years old. They walk together every day down the street and back home along the golf course. Karl loved our dog Sandy, and Sandy loved him. Karl literally shed a few tears on our behalf a year ago when he heard the news that she passed away. Now that Copper has calmed down (and is less likely to knock them over) Brett always encourages Copper to go say hi when they pass by our house. Karl and Helen are always so kind, and tell me what a beautiful mother I am. Who doesn't like to hear that?

Peggy and Betsy are also sweet older ladies. Peggy, a widow who lives with her son across from me, and Betsy, who lives with her husband down the street, have been neighborhood friends for years. They walk together most every morning and hit the garage sales together most every Saturday. I admire Betsy who carries a little plastic sack to pick up any trash she comes across while walking down the street. And the boys love Peggy's little white fluffy dog, Darlin'. The boys also love Peggy's climbing tree in her front side yard.

Deede, another neighbor across the street is a lot of fun. She goes all-out decorating for Christmas. I love seeing her lights from my house. She invites the whole neighborhood to her annual Christmas party, which is always a lot of fun. My boys immediately gravitate to her garage where they know the air hockey competitions are held. The boys also love her inflatable Frankenstein-type character that she sets up at Halloween. The first year Deede set it up Sandy growled at it for days. For a while my boys couldn't remember Deede's name and called her the lady at Mr. Bones' house. (I have no idea how they came up with the name "Mr. Bones," as it doesn't really fit his description.) Now we look forward to seeing Mr. Bones, and now the boys know Deede's name. Deede has two teenage sons who are relatively close in age. It has been interesting and a little funny to watch them over the past few years and think about all we have to look forward to as the parents of older boys who might occasionally get into a little mischief.

We always like to stop and say hi to Vicky as she walks her big collie, Nicki. Some time ago Nicki kept escaping through the fence of her backyard and always stopped by our house first. The fence finally had to be replaced, and we have missed her surprise visits to our house. Ryan would get so excited: "MOM! Nicki's here!"

We have another Hall family living a few doors down. We became acquainted with them through our dogs. Their dog Bailey occasionally runs over to greet us and our dogs. And Sandy got into the habit of disappearing every afternoon for a half hour or so. One day the Halls mentioned to us that Sandy came to their back door every afternoon for a little dog treat. When Sandy showed up all of the dogs (they have two or three) would line up waiting their turn.

I enjoyed getting to know Shari last year at the bus stop. It is nice to have somebody to wait with there each morning. Shari often comes still in her pajamas, and I often come looking grubby in my own way--unshowered, crazy hair, no makeup, etc. How nice to have neighbors who don't care what I look like! I have also enjoyed getting to know her daughter Erin, who is now one of my piano students.

I have also been especially grateful for our next-door neighbors--the ones who moved into Crazy Sarah's house. They had a little boy two months after I had Ryan. Their son Logan has become good friends with my boys and it has been so nice seeing the boys play together. My boys always spend more time outside playing with Logan than they would on their own. Logan feels comfortable at our house and walks right in looking for Todd and Ryan. My boys feel equally comfortable at Logan's house and climb right over the fence into their back yard. (We actually wanted them to climb the fence rather than use the gate because one of the three would inevitably let one of their dogs out.)

I think Logan looks at Todd and Ryan the same way he would his own cousins. In fact, he calls our Oma "Oma", and our Uncle Mark "Uncle Mark" and my boys call his Poppy "Poppy" and his Grammy "Grammy." Logan has joined us in decorating our Christmas tree and carving our jack-o-lantern.

The boys have fun dressing up and playing Indiana Jones, Clone Troopers, pirates, and more. They grab their swords, light sabers, or guns and go off to defend the world.

Logan has three boy cousins who are relatively close in age to our boys. The six boys had a good time playing together, running, hiding, chasing, and generally being boys. Brett quickly gave them the nickname of "The Posse." As in, when The Posse's together there's no playing in the house. Outside play only.

As I mentioned before, my boys don't have the same amount of free roam that I had growing up. However, between our house, Logan's house, Uncle Mark's house, Oma's house, cousins, neighbors that are almost family, a few trees to climb, and plenty of space to run around in--I think we are quite blessed.

The Posse:

Sappy Love

I am a romantic. There, I've said it (again).

I have been involved in a few conversations lately about movies and how Hollywood so often uses a certain formula to guarantee a big hit. The formula might go something like this: boy + girl + happily ever after = successful movie! And for me, that formula works. Sometimes I try to branch out and watch something that deviates from the formula. Sometimes, I am glad when I do. But I always come back to the "happily ever after."

Brett is not a romantic, and our tastes vary greatly when it comes to what we like to watch. We manage to find things to watch together, but only because there is just enough romantic drama thrown in to keep me interested. Take that away, and you can kiss our couch dates good-bye.

It's the same with books. I always reach for those books whose endings I can guarantee will make me happy. However, I often feel like I need to challenge myself by reading a book with a different formula. More often than not, I appreciate that the book actually made me think.

I recently read a book called, The History of Love, which I picked up from the used book store knowing nothing about it. With a title like that, I expected a "happily ever after" ending. However, this book did not follow the "boy meets girl" formula that I am so loyal to. Quite the contrary. The book was written in a completely different style--somewhat disjointed, in fact. In the end, I felt like I could use a second reading of the book to pick up everything that I missed. Rather than being about "happily ever after" this book was about dealing with the loss of love, including the loss of family and friends. I don't know that I would highly recommend it to everyone, but I was glad that I read it. It had me thinking for a few days after I read it, and that's always a good thing.

With music I have different requirements. I want a song that is highly "sing-able" as well as full of emotion. It doesn't matter so much whether the the song is about love lost or gained. In fact, some of my favorite songs are rather melancholy. I enjoy singing while I play the piano, and sappy love songs are usually a lot easier to play than something upbeat (i.e. fast). I have really enjoyed playing and singing Frank Sinatra's "This Love of Mine", "A Certain Smile" from one of my oldies music books, "Where is Love" from Oliver, and "I'm Not That Girl" from Wicked (this week's favorite). Sappy, sappy, sappy--and yet, I love them.

I don't know why this feels like a confession. I would like to be part of the intellectual group that appreciates "good" movies, books and music. But the truth is--I don't. Not really. So, does this make me less intellectual? Perhaps.

I'm trying to be okay with that.