Boat launch

My 13-year-old has a passion for boating.

As my father pointed out, he comes by it naturally, perhaps genetically. Monday evening, Tim announced he planned to go to bed early and sleep late, just to make the seasonal launch of my parents’ boat, which was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, arrive faster, the way some kids try to get to bed early on Christmas Eve. “I was just the same way at his age,” my father remarked. “And Rick probably was too.”

So with a father and a maternal grandfather who share his passion for motorboats, perhaps it’s not surprising that this is one of the major driving forces in Tim’s life. And I always remind myself that the up side of having a child who is not particularly well-rounded, who immerses himself in a very small number of select interests, is getting to see his radiant joy when a long winter yields to a warm spring and a generous grandfather who was willing to schedule an early launch date this year.

It’s true that I’ve sometimes wished Tim had more diverse tastes. Whereas many of the boys his age watch all kinds of movies and TV shows, hang out in large groups, and opt to attend summer camps that showcase at least twelve to fifteen different activities a week, Tim has always kept his focus narrow. He has just two close friends with whom he chooses to spend most of his time. He currently likes just one genre of books – fantasy -- no matter how much his language arts teacher or I might urge him to spread his wings.

And he has two favorite activities: boating and baseball. Both are worthwhile pursuits, but both are also fair-weather activities. This means he has a tendency to effectively hibernate all winter, spending the vast majority of his free time sitting on the playroom couch reading or playing video games.

That’s hard for me to watch. There are lots of hobbies and interests I’d love to see him develop, and I get frustrated with his monomaniacal tendencies and his winter reclusiveness. But then on days like yesterday, as we prepared for the boat launch, all the hibernating almost seems worth it.

Tim woke up exuberant on boat launch day. He read the owner’s manual for the boat. He counted the minutes until it was time to leave for the marina. When we arrived at the boatyard, he was literally quivering with joy. His excitement lasted for the next several hours of boating and boat maintenance, and his first question after dinner was how early we could take the boat out the following day.

I can’t say it completely compensates for all the time he spends doing nothing during the winter. But with the boat launch this week and his first baseball game scheduled for next Monday, things are definitely looking up. Baseball and boating are under way, and Tim is his warm-weather self, his cheerful, exuberant self, again. Yes, it was a sluggish several months, even without a lot of cold and snow. Tim doesn’t have a lot of purpose during the fall and winter months. But baseball and boating are back in session, and so is he. It warms my heart to witness, yet again.

Pre-holiday getaway

When we first broached the idea with friends about going away this weekend, I acknowledged that in some ways it seemed like not the best timing. “I know every weekend in December is really busy with parties, plus there’s always Christmas shopping or baking or decorating to do….” I said tentatively. “But do you think it might work out to go away the second weekend in December anyway?”

And in some ways, as the date approached, it continued to seem like a silly idea. After we’d agreed it could be fun to be in Portland instead of home this past weekend, party invitations started arriving via snail mail and email, and I realized we’d miss out on some key social events. I looked at my Christmas preparations list and saw how much still needed to be done – not just the inevitable gift-shopping but also the card-writing and candy-making and Christmas tree-purchasing. I wondered why we didn’t pick a wide-open weekend sometime amidst the tedium of late January instead.

But there was still a sneaking suspicion that this could be a great weekend to go away. And it was. Holiday spirit abounded in Portland, and the city glowed with glittery ornamentation in a way that our quiet suburban town just can’t match. We toured a Victorian mansion decorated for a Civil War-era Christmas; we shopped at bustling downtown stores as part of a Downtown Holiday Stroll, and we viewed an exhibit of gingerbread houses.

Then, inspired by all the clever gingerbread architecture we’d seen, the four kids in our group made their own gingerbread houses. After dinner, we strolled to the Old Port to see the colorful lights on the outsides of buildings downtown as well as the pretty wreaths and somewhat more discreet ornamentation on our neighbors’ doors.

Rather than pulling us away from the holiday spirit, going away actually seemed to add to it. But it wasn’t only because of all the festivities. If I had stayed home for the weekend, I would have done a lot of cooking and some housecleaning and a little bit of shopping. Instead, we did a lot of walking throughout the city, ate some wonderful food, learned a little bit of history at the Victorian mansion, and had a great visit with our guests. Since we didn’t have a lot on the schedule, the kids could take all the time they wanted decorating their gingerbread houses, and when they were done, there was still nowhere else we had to be, so they went outside to toss a football around.

I’ve often wished our holiday season involved a little bit more time for nature and reflection and a little bit less time going to parties and addressing Christmas cards. Yet I wouldn’t want to do without the parties and cards and other holiday minutiae altogether. They’re part of the season also. But being out of town gave me the opportunity to focus on some of the aspects of the season that I tend to neglect: time outdoors, quality time with friends.

On Friday night after dark, I stood out on the balcony looking at the full moon over Casco Bay, with the masts of sailboats lined with holiday lights twinkling from the harbor below. It was a new perspective on the holiday season. And just like the rest of the weekend, it made stepping out of our usual holiday-season routine for a couple of days seem like a wonderful idea.

Good hiking, bad packing

To my surprise, we did what we set out to do this weekend. This isn’t astonishing in and of itself, except that this weekend the plan was to hike up Bradbury Mountain in Pownal, Maine. Since my new philosophy is to go ahead and plan the things I want to do rather than waiting around for my kids to develop some of my interests, I told them I was going to do this hike and they were welcome to join me. I was sure they’d demur. They never choose hiking when I offer it as an option.

So I can’t explain why this weekend they had a change of heart from their usual reticence, but they assured me that yes, they really did want to do this hike. And since three different guidebooks assured me Bradbury Mountain is probably the easiest hike in Maine, I decided to follow through and see what would happen.

It turns out they really meant it. We did the hike; an hour of walking in all. The kids particularly enjoyed the steep rocks that they could clamber up and down, and the weather was ideal for a fall hike. Foliage in Maine is gradually starting to change, and the views were gorgeous.

But there must have been bad karma going around this weekend when it came to packing our bags. As we were getting ready to leave home and drive to Maine Saturday afternoon, Tim asked if he could slip the few things he needed for a one-night stay into my overnight bag. “Sure, there should be room in the pocket,” I told him. Not until he was changing for bed six hours – and one hundred miles – later did we realize we were talking about different overnight bags. His change of underwear and clean clothes for the next day were tucked in the pocket of the bag I had never planned to bring.

It didn’t matter too much, since I had an extra toothbrush in my toiletries bag. I teased him that for once, he actually had an excuse for not putting on clean underwear in the morning; normally, whether or not he does is anyone’s guess, since he never seems to be able to explain to me why the number of underwear items in his hamper never align with the number of days since I last did the laundry.

So that was a minor problem. Unfortunately, a worse problem occurred when we got back home late Sunday afternoon, enthusiastic and well-exercised from our hike, and I realized my overnight bag had never made it back into the car when we were packing up in Maine.

It means I have to retrace my steps and go all the way back to Portland to pick it up. It was a remarkably stupid mistake on my part, one I stewed over all evening. But in the end, I had to reconcile myself to the reality that while it was careless, it wasn’t awful. No one had gotten hurt, and there was no significant material loss. The only real cost to be paid, other than the four hours it will take me to repeat the round-trip drive this week, is gasoline and auto emissions, but since I drive a Prius, even that can almost be excused.

Still, it’s a big enough mistake that I’ll learn from it. Four dull hours on the Maine Turnpike will surely be enough to make me double-check that I have all my bags next time. And sometimes, that can be a worthwhile tradeoff: make a big enough mistake and you’re sure not to make it again.

Besides, the hike was great. That’s what I’ll hold onto from this weekend, not the frustration of leaving things behind.

I only wish that for Tim, wearing the same underwear two days in a row would vex him enough that he too would be more careful next time. But I’m not counting on it.

Peculiar and hilarious: My weekend with three 12-year-old boys

I used to always end Tim’s birthday parties with a sense of triumph. I survived, the house survived, and the kids had fun, I would tell myself with a rush of relief as each one ended. The farm party; the cupcake-decorating party; the outing to the minor league baseball park; the sleepover party; the miniature golf excursion; the day at the theme park. All were great birthday celebrations as far as Tim was concerned because he had so much fun; all were great from my perspective because, well, they ended with no one getting hurt. And sometimes they were kind of fun for me too. But more often than not, it was just a relief to know I’d pulled it off.

This year I ended Tim’s birthday party not with a sense of triumph but with a minor sense of sadness. It wasn’t that the gathering hadn’t been successful. It was just that for the first time in 12 years of hosting birthday parties for Tim and his peers, I didn’t want to see this one end.

I suspected that taking three 12-year-old boys up to Maine for the weekend just days before Tim turned 13 would work out pretty well, but I didn’t anticipate what a good time I would have. Partly it was great because the mom of one of the other guests came along too, and she and I had lots of time to talk and visit throughout the weekend, but it was also just that the boys were really fun to be with. Peculiar and hilarious at times, but fun.

Peculiar and hilarious in that any mildly interesting thing any of them managed to do – such as climbing a medium-sized tree, eating an order of fried clams or crossing a street backwards – involved not only the activity itself but the necessity of one of the other boys whipping out a cell phone, taking a picture of the endeavor, and then emailing it to ten or fifteen friends. Peculiar and hilarious in that much of the weekend unfolded in tandem with a continuous text-message conversation going back and forth with a group of girls from their class at school who were having a get-together of their own at the same time. Peculiar and hilarious in that when walking down a somewhat busy city street, 12-year-old boys tend to draw upon the rules of bumper cars more than of pedestrians – caroming off of other people as you tear along is fine as long as you don’t actually initiate any head-on crashes.

But really, what will stay in my mind about the weekend isn’t so much the many ways that 12-year-old boys are different from 44-year-old moms – such as when a formal wedding party arrived by boat at the dock adjacent to our balcony and while my friend and I, along with several neighbors who were watching from their own balconies, oohed and aahed over the pretty bride and her elegant dress, the boys expressed disappointment at what a smooth landing the captain of the boat made, even with a photographer standing right in his line of sight, because, of course, it would have been so much cooler if the wedding party had crash-landed at the dock – not any of that is what will stay in my mind as much as how much fun we all had. We took a long walk along the bike path to the beach. We ate mussels and calamari. We visited the ice cream parlor. We went on a 90-minute kayaking excursion on the Harraseeket River. We played badminton.

I wish I could say this birthday must be the beginning of a long string of parties at which I’ll have just as good a time as the kids, but this may have been a one-off. If I could turn back the clock to Friday, I’d do it all again, just because it was so much fun. But of course, I have to move past the weekend and into a new work week, just as the kids do back at school. Thanks to them, though, there are two or three hundred cell-phone photos of our fun now floating through cyber-space, so I can revisit the experience as often as I want.

On our way

As the kids and I headed north to Portland, Maine, yesterday evening, I couldn't help thinking of the famous Norman Rockwell diptych: the first illustration showing three generations of an American family looking fresh, crisp and excied as they drive off in the station wagon for a day at the beach; the second illustration showing the same family tired, sticky and sunburned.

But what I kept thinking as we left Massachusetts and passed briefly through New Hampshire before reaching the Maine Turnpike was how I feel like we embody that story only in reverse. We're grubby and disorganized as we leave for our trip, not as we return. At least we were yesterday.

The vicissitudes of Tim's summer baseball schedule are such that the best time for us to get away is midweek, leaving after a Tuesday evening game and getting back in time for his Thursday evening game. Of course, this leaves out Rick, who has to be at work during the week, but since Tim has baseball games both Saturday and Sunday, it's our best chance to get away for two consecutive nights.

Still, it never seems easy. It still takes me about half the day to pack up for a two-night trip, and it's not exactly like I'm stocking campground essentials: in Portland, we stay in my parents' well-stocked condo. So it doesn't matter if we forget milk or shampoo or paper towels. But still, packing my clothes, reminding the kids of what they'll need, collecting materials for any work I plan to do while I'm away, gathering cameras, sandals, bike helmets. Facing the challenge of putting the bike rack on the car and then attaching the bikes. Fitting the cooler in the storage area in back of the car. Making sure that everyone's frivolous-but-necessary electronics are charged (or else that chargers have been packed).

So once we finally hit the road, we're already tired, not to mention the fact that Tim has just finished a tough six-inning baseball game. We stop at MacDonald's, a very rare indulgence in my family but worth it when it's seven o'clock and I want to get to Maine more than I want to maintain our usual nutritional standards.

Fortunately, I remembered to pack a whole wheat bagel with Cheddar and cherry tomatoes for myself. As we drive, the kids get French fry grease all over themselves and the car, and I'm not doing much better: two bites into my bagel, a cherry tomato squirts all over my shirt.

I make the slightest hand motion toward my phone, and both kids perk up like terriers. "I get to call Daddy!" "No, it's my turn!" I listen to them argue about it for thirty seconds or so and then ask, "What does either of you have to say to Daddy?" Nothing, as it turns out. They both saw him less than an hour ago. What matters is being the one deemed important enough to dial his number. (Of course, I too saw him less than an hour ago, but I already have several things to say to him: I haven't fed the dog yet, and could you wrap those loaves of banana bread that I left cooling on the counter in Saran wrap, and what do you think we should do about the problem with the washing machine, and sorry that you have to be at work tomorrow while we're out boating.)

Finally we arrive, sticky and a little greasy with a couple of arguments already under our belts, not fresh and crisp like Rockwell's beach-goers. But maybe we'll complete the reversal and return home that way, rather than tired and sunburned. If the journey is more important than the destination, we've completed this one safely and successfully, and I'm very happy to smell the ocean.

24 hours in Portland with Holly

My eight-year-old and I did a quick 24-hour visit to Portland this past weekend. The weather was cold and drizzly, which was what prevented Tim from wanting to go with us, but Holly and I had a wonderful time together despite the weather.

My college roommate, along with the third of her four daughters – her 13-year-old – drove from their home 45 minutes south of Portland to join us for dinner. Although we usually see each other every summer, we’d missed last year’s usual get-together, so we had tons to catch up on. Her eldest daughter just completed her first year of college; her second daughter is wrapping up her first year of high school. She told me about attending her 25th high school reunion in Sanford, Maine. (“No, no one is impressed at all that I earned a Ph.D. No one there knows what a Ph.D. is.”) Even without milestones, we can chat for hours without drawing a breath; it was rewarding as always to just talk and talk.

As a big treat, Holly got to stay up late watching “High School Musical 3.” I caught up on email while she watched the movie; we both went to bed after 10. She slept Sunday morning until 9:30, which gave me more than two hours to sip freshly brewed coffee and read both the Boston Globe and the New York Times on my Kindle. It was one of the most lazy and enjoyable mornings I’ve had in months.

After breakfast, we painted our toenails. Yes, it’s a cliché thing to do on a mother-daughter weekend, but I had just bought a new pair of sandals that really require painted nails, and Holly assured me that she was the only third grader currently going au naturel in the nail department, so we both indulged in some Glittery Mauve.

And then we headed to the Old Port Festival. Several blocks of downtown Portland were blocked off from traffic for this annual event, and despite the drizzly chill, thousands of people showed up. We heard some good live music among the three stages set up around the neighborhood, and we saw people eating an amazing variety of deep fried foods off of paper plates (Holly being no exception, of course: fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar for her, which actually seemed fairly conservative compared to the ubiquitous deep fried pickles being sold throughout the festival).

Eventually we needed to head home; Holly had plans to go swimming with a friend in the late afternoon, a thought I must admit I found reassuring as she slept ‘til 9:30 and I wondered how she was possibly going to fall asleep that night. Swimming is always good for tiring kids out. With just the two of us staying in the condo for only one night, it didn’t take long at all to clean up, and by 1:30 we were in the car heading south on the Turnpike.

Not everything worked out exactly as hoped this weekend. The weather was disappointingly chilly, and the forecast of rain kept us from bringing our bikes, which meant we couldn’t go for a ride together and also I couldn’t go running, since the plan was for Holly to ride alongside while I ran. But there was time for running when we got back to Carlisle, and all in all it was such an enjoyable weekend. Maybe Holly and I will look back and remember it as a really special time together; or maybe in the larger context it won’t seem unique, since we do spend time in Portland alone together once or twice a year when no one else is available to go with us.

But in a way, that was what was so special about it: the fact that nothing we did – the pedicures, the music festival, even the visit with my former roommate – was so unusual as to be inherently memorable. Unique or not, I’m just glad we went and had so much fun together. How it fits into the context of our memories with the passage of time is something we just don’t know, but the fact that we had a great time with each other this weekend is a certainty.

Having fun

One young member of my Sunday school class this past weekend wanted to be sure it was absolutely clear to me that she would rather not be in class. “I wanted sooooo much to stay home but my parents made me come to church today,” she whined during the early part of the class when the kids are encouraged to share their joys and concerns.

“What would you be doing right now if they’d let you stay home?” I asked.
I think she thought it was a trick question, that I was trying to trip her up somehow, but I wasn’t. I don’t know this particular child very well. If she had gotten her wish to stay home, she’d probably be having more fun, and I was curious to know what fun for her looked like.

I was thinking about this already because I’ve been reading The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin, which also talks about the importance of being able to define your own sources of fun. When Rubin posed the question on her blog about what people find fun, what I found most telling was what some people identified as not fun: games with their children that involved toys (though these same parents liked other activities with their kids, just not playing with toys), going to parties.

As Rubin’s readers articulated, sometimes things we associate with fun because of their general reputations, such as toys and parties, turn out not to be, or just aren’t to our tastes. Going too far in the direction of labeling different activities as “fun” or “not fun” can be unnecessarily limiting: assuming you don’t like parties could mean never going to another party, and there’s always the chance that the occasional one will turn out to be pretty worthwhile. At the same time, knowing what makes you happy can be both self-affirming and practical: self-affirming because it helps confirm in your own mind who it is that you are, and practical because it helps you put your time to good use rather than squandering it.

When my children were really young, time to myself was so rare that sometimes when the kids were gone for several hours at a time, I’d almost literally find myself walking in circles, not knowing what to do with the gift of free time I’d been handed. Although these days I have plenty of time to myself at home, I felt a little bit the same way last Friday when I went up to Portland, Maine, to help my father with an errand and found myself with two free hours to spend there all by myself. I’d been to Portland several times before, but always with the kids. Being there alone – and on a mild sunny spring day, no less – left me almost overwhelmed by the choices.

Should I go for a powerwalk by the harbor? Try on clothes at one of the artsy boutiques on Middle Street? Sip coffee and read magazines at a café with a waterfront view? Watch the boats come and go from the dock outside the condo balcony? I tried hard to pin myself down on my definition of fun so as to make the best possible use of my brief but precious stint of time.

In the end, I used my two hours well. Powerwalking didn’t happen, but the shopping, strolling, coffee and reading all did. I was glad I’d identified those ahead of time as things I was likely to find fun.

Of course, it’s important not to limit yourself. There are always new forms of fun yet to be discovered. But as I tried to tell my Sunday school class, knowing what really makes you happy is part of knowing who you are. And it’s a good feeling when you can zoom in on just what it is that you find to be fun.

A midwinter distance run reassures

Over the weekend I was able to go running both Saturday and Sunday in Portland, Maine, where the temperatures were frigid and the wind biting but, unlike Carlisle, the bike path was cleared to bare asphalt, other than the many patches of ice scattered intermittently across it wherever the sun did not hit long enough.

This meant that I was finally able to do the kind of mileage run I’ve been missing all winter. Ever since our first major storm of the season on December 26, our footpaths have been buried, and I firmly believe it’s just too dangerous to run on the road when the snowbanks make it impossible to jump out of the way of an oncoming car. (Admittedly, I’ve broken this rule once or twice when the craving for a longer run was irresistible. But for the most part, I avoid the roadways when the snowbanks are higher than knee level, and as a driver I wish other runners would do the same.)

Being able to finish a four-mile, 45-minute run on Saturday reassured me that I still have the ability to do that kind of distance, even though I begin to doubt myself after eight weeks of putting in just enough time and distance – 13 to 18 minutes, 1.2 to 1.8 miles – to be sure I’m clearing the one-mile daily minimum required to maintain my standing on the U.S. Running Streak Association registry.

Even before I was a “streak runner,” though, I’d doubt my abilities by the end of the winter. I used to cease running altogether once the temperature regularly fell below about 40 degrees, and at some point in mid-February I’d always start wondering whether I was in fact still a runner. What if when spring finally came, I was a beginner again, unable to complete ten minutes without my aerobic capacity failing me?

What I always forgot at those times, though, was that there was another equally powerful force working against the possible lapse in fitness level: the craving to get back out on the road. I have friends who say the first day of warm air and snow melting in the early spring makes them want to buy new spring clothes or go for a bike ride; in my case it makes me want to put on running tights and a sweatshirt and hit the pavement. Now that I run daily throughout the winter, it’s different: my body doesn’t develop that same craving to run, since I never stop running, but there’s still a craving for distance, for the tired muscle ache I get after 40 or 45 minutes, for the awareness as I start out that I have enough time ahead as I run to empty my mind of other thoughts.

And it’s the same now. I’ve done such short daily runs all winter, I can’t help wondering what my abilities will be when the snowbanks finally recede. But this past weekend reassured me: a four-miler in the frigid harborside wind, having to dodge ice patches, confirmed that I can still do it. Although intellectually I believe it’s possible to get really out of shape and lose the facility for distance running, my body has proven otherwise time and again. I’m glad I had the chance to test myself over this past weekend, and I’m looking forward to regular runs of that length once spring arrives.

I would say “It’s like riding a bike,” but Tim has persuaded me that that’s a meaningless expression: as he sees it, everything is like riding a bike. He logically points out that you never forget how to swim, read or pitch a baseball, just as you never forget how to balance on a bike. And it’s not that I think I’ll forget how to run; I just think I’ll lose the ability to stay with it for any duration.

But I never do. Spring comes around year after year, and I’m able to start doing my four- and five- and six-milers again. It will happen again this year, just as it always does. The running of this past weekend tided me over, giving me reassurance and making me look with anticipation toward warmer days.

Walking, but no hiking

We had a wonderful weekend in Portland. Once again, the city seemed to pulse with exuberance: on the biking path that runs alongside the harbor; in the shops and cafes; at the public beach; on the sidewalk where the sightseeing trolley disgorge passengers. The sun shone, the air was cool, the breeze was brisk: everyone seemed chipper and happy.

Also once again, my plans to drag my children out on a hike flopped. Or, if flopped is not exactly the right verb, then fizzled.

I wanted to explore one of the easy, kid-friendly hiking trails whose names had appeared on my computer screen ever since I put the word out on Facebook and Twitter that I was determined to get my two children out for a hike this weekend. Bradbury Mountain, or Wolfe Neck State Park, or even the trails that lead off the beach at Crescent Beach State Park.

But it wasn’t meant to be. We spent Saturday morning at the boatyard exploring my parents’ new boat. After lunch, everyone rested and read. And then, when I was ready to brave some new terrain outside the city, the kids had other ideas. It wasn’t that they wanted to watch TV or play computer games. They just didn’t want to get back into the car to drive to a hiking trail, for which I can hardly blame them. Avoiding the car, which often seems important to my kids when we are away from home, is an impulse with which I can never in good conscience argue.

So I told them we needed to do something involving fresh air and exercise, and they could decide what. Holly wanted to walk to the toy store and shop for stickers; Tim was interested in a vinegar tasting at the gourmet shop down the block. (Really. Tim loves vinegar. A vinegar-tasting event for him is like the Ben & Jerry’s Scooperbowl might be for another 12-year-old boy.) Both sounded like reasonable impulses and would at least get us out doing something, if not something that exactly qualified as exploring nature. So we visited the sticker store and then the kids remembered a playground we’d discovered last spring. Forgetting about the vinegar tasting, we headed out in the direction where we thought we remembered the playground being, and found it about a half-mile later. Delighted with that option, the kids ran up and down the slide, chased each other, pumped high on the swings, and ran around some more. Then we walked back to the condo.

I have to admit that no amount of planning on my part, no amount of researching hiking trails and putting out inquiries as to other families’ favorites, is likely to change my kids’ inclinations right now. They’re just not big on hiking. And at a certain point, I need to recognize that and not make the mistake of harping on it.

On the other hand, it’s reasonable to say that as their mother, I have a certain obligation to do what I can to keep them healthy and fit, and part of that is daily exercise. So in light of this weekend’s change of plans, I’ve decided I can’t push them to do activities they really aren’t interested in, but I can tell them they have to find some form of outdoor activity for 20 or 30 minutes most days. Yesterday, Tim played baseball; when I offered Holly the choice of a bike ride, a walk, or time on the swing set, she opted for the swing set – but it was still a half-hour of good physical activity for her.

Maybe eventually they’ll come around. At ages 8 and 12, they surely can’t have formed all their opinions and preferences quite yet. I hope at some point they do develop an interest in hiking. In the meantime, I need to accept what I cannot currently change, push the regular exercise in whatever form they choose, and possibly find other people to hike with.

And to everyone who wrote to me with their Portland suggestions, I really appreciate the ideas, I’ll keep the list, and eventually, one way or another, I’ll try them all out.

City mouse, country mouse

Yesterday morning in Portland, Maine, I ran along the Eastern Promenade bike path that parallels Casco Bay. When I turned at the two-mile mark, the loveliness of the view spread out before me made me catch my breath midstride. What a picture-perfect Labor Day weekend. I was running down a slope heading back toward the city, with the Victorian homes of Munjoy Hill rising to my right and moored sailboats bobbing on the sparkling waves to my left. Farther ahead, I could see a ferry sliding into port, and a couple of lobster boats whose proprietors must have been taking a break for the holiday weekend were moored in their rustic splendor aside the dock near the city beach, where a few dogs were taking their daily dip. A preschooler ambled toward me along the bike path pushing his own stroller, reminding me of when Tim was at that same peculiar phase. (We went to Disney World thinking he was big enough that he could walk rather than use a stroller. We ended up renting one merely so that he could push it around.) Other runners passed me; couples with baby carriages walked along sipping coffee. I felt so happy and so fortunate to be in the midst of this scene: exercisers, tourists, boaters, working people, babies, children, pets.

We’ve spent a lot of time in Portland this summer because last spring my parents bought a condo in the Old Port and are generous about letting us use it whenever we’re able to take the trip up. Some of our friends find it amusing that we enjoy vacationing in the city so much, but it’s because where we live is in some ways like a vacation spot itself – secluded and rural – so to me, it makes sense that when we go away, we want the opposite. At home on the farm, we have beautiful views, lots of silence, animals grazing all around us, and the sweet smell of grass growing. At night, we can see hundreds of stars from our own front step. We can swim or row in the pond, and ride our bikes along tree-lined country roads.

So perhaps it’s not surprising that being in the heart of the Old Port is such a novelty to us. On Saturday night, I went to sleep listening to party cruises returning to port and a live band playing at the outdoor restaurant down the street; I woke at dawn to the sound of the seagulls who follow the fishing boats out to sea.

I like all those sounds, and I like seeing neighbors walk past our front door and crowds of tourists and locals filling the sidewalks nearby. I like walking to the general store two blocks away when I’m out of milk, and I like letting the kids go out together on their own for an ice cream cone. At home, we live far from any shopping districts; we have to drive to do any errands at all.

This particular irony is not so new to me. I grew up in this same small quiet semi-rural town. My favorite vacations during childhood were ones where we stayed in the middle of the action, walking to shops and seeing lots of people all around us. I like solitude, but I get all the solitude I need when I’m home on the farm. And since so many of our friends live nearby, breaking the solitude whenever we want to is effortless. On vacation, I like a change: noise and activity and plenty of humanity.

Of course, it’s always good to get home after you’ve been anywhere. Last night after we returned home, I stood outside and looked at the stars once again, hearing nothing but peepers in the pond and a breeze in the treetops. To many people, that would be a vacation moment. To me, it’s home. I’m lucky to live here. But I love getting to experience something different, also.

A one-day-long gratitude list

A few days ago, my sister wrote a Facebook post listing all her favorite elements of the summer so far. A gratitude list, essentially. Reading it underscored for me the fact that I’ve been a little bit whinier than usual in the past few weeks, dwelled a little bit too much, perhaps, on those parts of the summer that aren’t going exactly right. I should do a gratitude list too, I told myself then. Even if I feel more preoccupied right now with the not-so-great parts, I should remind myself of all that is truly great, as Sarah did: things like fresh peaches and unrushed mornings.

But today I could actually just list everything that happened to me yesterday and that in itself would compose a gratitude list, because yesterday was in many ways such a terrific day. We’re staying at my parents’ vacation condo in Portland for a couple of nights. My day started with reading a copy of Poets & Writers magazine and drinking coffee on the balcony overlooking the harbor while I waited for the kids to wake up. Once dressed and fed, they walked down to the corner store in search of a newspaper for me. They didn’t find the one I wanted, but they returned home full of the good cheer and harmony that result when I send them out together on the kind of walking errands they can’t do at home.

Later in the day, my friend Anjali and her daughters Elena and Vanessa arrived for a visit. Like yesterday, the kids wanted to play in the boat for a while, which was fine with us. Then Anjali and the girls went window-shopping around town, which gave me the chance for a good long run.

When I got back to the condo, Anjali and the girls were still out so I thought I’d go on a quick bike ride to try to solve some mysteries of the city’s geography that had been puzzling me. “Maybe Tim will go with me,” I thought, but knew it was unlikely because he was engrossed in one of his knights-and-dragons novels. “Sure, I’ll go with you,” he said when I asked. What a welcome surprise. We rode down alongside the Harbor and then up to Munjoy Hill and back along the Eastern Promenade, and returned from our bike ride just as the window shoppers returned.

After that we were all tired and needed some down time: Tim and Elena both read, Holly listened to a book on tape, Vanessa rested, Anjali and I talked. Then we went out to dinner and Tim and Holly each ate a massive bowl of steamed clams.

Afterwards, the kids played tag in an empty section of the parking lot. (Credit the First Lady: whereas once I’d see that and think “I hope they’re not in any danger of traffic or inconveniencing anyone,” now my first thought is “Oh good, they’re burning calories.”)

As promised, I took the three older kids to the candy store for dessert while Anjali headed back to the condo with Vanessa Although it took about twenty minutes of contemplation and negotiation for each of the three kids to settle on what they wanted, I couldn’t have asked for a better reward at the end: the young woman at the counter saying to me, “You have really well-behaved children. And I work all day in a candy shop, so believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I see the worst of the worst here!” And as if that wasn’t reward enough, the chocolate-covered marshmallow caramel was the perfect way to end the day.

So, my gratitude list, not even for the whole summer but just for yesterday: coffee on the balcony, happy kids, running, biking, playing in the boat, Tim and Holly’s joy over steamed clams, friends visiting, watching the kids play tag, compliments at the chocolate shop, caramel with marshmallows. What a great day. Listing the highlights, of which there were so many, just serves to remind me that on some days the moments of joy are obvious and other days they’re more subtle, but they are always there to be found. Just look. Every day, just look. And then, when possible, take time to make a list.