Addressing the Elephant in the Room

Hello elephant. It’s time you left.

I moved out when I got married, but maybe I am only now truly growing up, moving out on my own without the familiar presence of my parents’ lives happening alongside mine. Their lives are obviously still happening, but time-zones apart from mine. A flip-flop of days and nights that means Skyping must be planned; emails must stand in for the thought forgotten until just after you say goodbye. Sitting at computers on opposite sides of the world is not the same as perching on a stool next to my mom with a cup of tea. Does it ever feel comforting and personal? Am I just not used to it yet?

Some may not understand why my parents pulled up their lives, sold the family home and moved to the other side of the world; from a place with four distinct seasons to the desert in a city surrounded by countries constantly in the news - not for good reasons. It sounds crazy. It sounds insane. It sounds exciting. It sounds adventurous. It sounds daring. I understand why my parents went - because God told them to go. They don’t need another reason. I don’t need another reason. I am incredibly proud of my parents. I am also incredibly jealous of their adventure. When will it be my turn?

Their move has taught me that God is never finished with you. My parents raised four kids who are each successful in their chosen paths. Empty-nesters with eyes on retirement, they could have sat back and been ready to grow old in my childhood home. Instead they sought God for the next step, willing and ready for it to be a big one, and it was. God is looking to use willing hearts.

Their move has taught me to hold material possessions lightly. As my parents got rid of furniture I felt the urge to take all their cast-offs, holding on to things just because they had been my parents not because I particularly liked them. I’m glad I didn’t, we don’t have the room. It was hard to say goodbye to the house I grew up in. It is still hard to drive by knowing someone else sleeps in my old bedroom, someone else perches on stools at the counter, someone else is shaking their head at pink carpet in the bedroom. (Or maybe there is a little girl who is in love with it, at least for now.)

Saying goodbye was hard, really hard. Trying to explain to my 2 1/2 year old that we won't see Grandma and Grandpa until July is hard; especially when she asks if they will buy their car and house back. Yes, there are times I wish they were still here, physically closer, often when I need a babysitter. But I am glad they are not, because to stay would have been the wrong thing. Staying when you should go, staying because of fear, because of sentimentality, clinging to memories rather than going out and making new ones, that is not living the life that Jesus came to save. My parents are living their lives following God and I am proud of them.

Goodbye elephant.

I Didn't Cry

I didn’t cry.

Me.  The emotional basket-case of the family.  

I didn’t cry.

The one who cries at everything.  I cried when Charlotte dies, a spider for crying out loud.  And I hate spiders (sorry Maria Montessori, but I just don’t like some of Nature’s children).  I cried when Jim Craig had his horse shot out from under him.  I cried when Dan and Ann died (getting misty now just thinking about it).  I balled my eyes out when my friend Tabitha moved the astronomical distance to Florida when we were 7.  I cried when I flew to England for a year.  I cried myself to sleep from homesickness. 

Can you imagine what I was like during pregnancy?

I cry for every sob story article people post on facebook.

I cried when I had to leave in the middle of my best friend’s wedding in Morocco just so we could catch a flight that ended up being cancelled.  I cried a lot that day.

I cry a lot.

But I didn’t.

Not this time.

Why not?

It’s goodbye.

The distances are not as astronomical (financial maybe, but not astronomical).  We will visit.  Tacoma is not that far away.  Is that why I didn’t cry?  

Maybe I’m just in denial.

Maybe the tears are around the corner.  Maybe they’re just waiting for the right time.  

Maybe I’m not going to be an emotional basket-case any more.

Um, yeah right Rachel.

I can tell as I write this, I will cry, just not yet.

Summer

I have written about Caroga Lake many times before.  I write about it when I’m here, when I miss a summer, and when I am asked to write about a favorite memory.  Sitting here at camp, there is no better topic.

View from the porch

"Did you know it would be like this?  Is this what you envisioned when you bought the place?  Did you know we would love it so much?"

There are few places in my memory that are so engrained as this one; few places with as much tradition.  Like a liturgy: you sleep there, I sleep here, this is where we have breakfast, this is where we toast marshmallows.

The paint is peeling.  Peeling in straight geometric lines that indicate lead paint.  Some people might call it a death trap, I call it camp.  Everything squeaks and creaks, if you need something in the kitchen you better look through every drawer, don’t use anything in the medicine cabinet - it’s probably been out of date for at least 10 years, the oven is quirky - don’t trust the temperature reading, the faucet is lake water - don’t drink it.   A realtor would describe it as ‘charming’.

The breeze is beautiful, the air smells wonderful, of pine needles and mountains.  The birdsong is clearer, the water bluer.   

Breakfast Hair

Great Grandpa Carnrite,

When you bought Ja-Mari-Ette 5 generations ago, did you know it would be like this?  Did you know we would cry the summers we missed?  That it wasn’t really summer without time at camp.  Did you know that we would do our best to get here every year even for just a weekend?  Or a night?  Did you know your great, great, granddaughters would be swimming off the same beach where your children swam?  

"Swimming"

Aunt Marion kept talking about selling the place.  When I was in high school it seemed a very real possibility.  I cried about it.  Now I realize she would never have sold camp, she never could have sold it.  Camp is a gift.  Great, Grandpa Carnrite might not ever have known me, but he knew I might happen, and that’s why he bought the place.  

Camp will eventually be sold.  I know this.  My adult mind knows this.  But until that moment when I actually do have to let go, I will not loosen my grip.  One day it will happen, another family will be here.  Or the place will be torn down (more likely).  Caroga Lake summers will end.  

But right now, I’m sharing it with my daughter.

First Morning at Caroga

What topic do you return to again and again in your writing?

Using a whole bottle of Tobasco or, Spice Packet People

Part 2

We are not just spice packet people.  There are a few family recipes that have been handed down.  The ‘Nuts and Bolts’ I made the other day is one of them.  The photo-copied card I have in my recipe book reads “from the kitchen of Grandma Palmer”, that would my my mom’s grandma, my great-grandma.  To call it party mix would be disrespectful.  The smell of it baking means Christmas, especially since my mom would make two or three batches between Thanksgiving and New Years Eve.

The first Christmas my husband and I were married (the same year I learned about my mom’s chili), I eagerly bought all the ingredients for Nuts and Bolts.  I carefully followed the recipe, making sure my measurements were exact.  I remember there was no temperature for the oven written on the card.  I probably called my mom to ask, but she must have been away from home and just guessed.  The wonderful Nuts and Bolts Christmas smell did not fill our apartment.  It burned.  

Perhaps the oven was too hot.  Perhaps I hadn’t made enough sauce for the amount of pretzels, rice chex and nuts.  Whatever the reason the only person who ate it was my older sister who favors the burned pieces of popcorn.  Even the small amount of non-burned Nuts and Bolts was bland. I tried to like it.  I tried to get my husband to like it.  We ended up throwing most of it away.  

I related to my mom my failed attempt at the family tradition.  When I mentioned how bland it was and how hers always tasted better she replied with: ‘Oh, I don’t follow the recipe.  I add way more Tobasco and Worcestershire sauce than it calls for.’

Last years attempt was passable, though still not as good as mom’s.  So this year I was excited.  No measuring.  Dashes of this, handfuls of that and a whole bottle of Tobasco.  That’s what she said right?  I did pause half way through the bottle.  But I remember, she said ‘a lot’ of Tobasco.  So in it went.  Two and a half hours later I tasted my latest attempt.  Yum.  Spicy, but delicious.

Well.  Yesterday my sisters and our daughters baked cookies with my mom (thoughts of generational cookbooks return).  I mentioned that I had finally made good Nuts and Bolts and that they were spicy from the whole bottle of Tobasco.

Whole bottle?? My mom looked at me in disbelief.

Yes, I thought you said you use the whole bottle?

Oh, I only use about two tablespoons.

Sigh...

Using a whole bottle of Tobasco or, Spice Packet People

Part 1

A few months after I got married I felt intrepid enough to try my hand at making chili.  Cooking is not my specialty.  I can bake a delicious (some even say famous) chocolate chip cookie, but cooking always frazzled me, too many variables.  I lived at home during college and on the nights my mom didn’t cook my staple was Annie’s Mac and Cheese.  Some times I would saute onions and peppers, maybe heat up some leftover meat, to make the mac and cheese into more of a meal but that was the extent of my cooking abilities.  My dad was so worried about the comfort of my future husband he took it upon himself to teach me to cook.  Let’s just say it only happened once and it didn’t end well.  I was given boxes of Annie’s Mac at my bridal shower.  By more than one person.  Faith in my cooking abilities was low.

But I wanted to try chili.  Not just any chili, my mom’s chili.  The only chili I liked (or so I thought).  So I asked her for her recipe.  My first clue should have been the fact that I didn’t already have it.  I had photo-copied cards from her recipe box, at least all the ones I liked, before I moved out.  

My mom looked puzzled, my recipe?  

Yea, your chili is the only kind I really like.  

Oh, I just use the spice packet.

Crash. 

I timidly picked it up the next time I was at the grocery store.  McCormick.  Chili.  Hot.  There it was, what I thought was a ‘family recipe’, on the back of a spice packet.  Ready in 30 minutes.  Dreams of cookbooks filled with recipes passed down mother to daughter that would rival Martha Stewart and Paula Deen evaporated.  We were spice packet people.