live my one wild and precious life

A year ago, I met some wonderful and inspiring writers in New Haven, and began to see that taking my writing seriously needn’t be a solitary sport. For months I became passionate about writing, working on several stories in parallel, and beginning to believe in myself as a writer. Six months later, I had to give up their company for reasons I won’t go into here. I kept writing, and formed a new writing group with some friends a little closer to home. But the passion and enthusiasm I had for it seemed to fade away, and I began to despair. My writing suffered. It seemed I had nothing to say, and no reason to say it.

Thursday night, though, I found the cause of my discontent. In another discussion with one of the members of my new writing group, I learned that I had started worrying about what other people thought of my work. Will it get published? Will people read it? Will they think it’s too depressing?

“You can’t listen to them. Non-writers always want you to write something happy. But that’s not interesting. Stop thinking about it, and just write what you want to explore, to understand. Great work will follow.”

So I did. I dusted off a story idea from more than six months ago. It’s fun, exciting, and yes, a little morbid. And I don’t care. I just spent more than an hour writing with a freedom I haven’t felt in months. Perhaps it’s too soon to declare success, but I really feel like I’ve had a breakthrough.

It is Tuesday. Any anyone conversant in my postings of the last year know that Tuesdays are not my favorite days. But this Tuesday wasn’t half bad.

Every Tuesday, if my wife is on travel or playing a gig, I need to load all three kids into the car and drive 45 minutes to The University of Hartford. We drop off my daughter at her guitar lesson, then take my oldest to his piano lesson, across town. Then we (I’m saying we because, throughout this whole experience, my six year old is strapped into his car seat saying “I’m bored” and “Are we there yet?” over and over)zoom back to Hartt to pick up my daughter and drop her off again at her Chorus. Then it’s back to get my oldest, then off to Whole Foods for the shopping and a quick gnosh, then back to pick up my daughter and then back home. Whew!

Just typing it is exhausting. It’s a four hour, 90 mile extravaganza that leaves us all grumpy and tired, not to mention feeling robbed of another Tuesday evening.

This week, though, my six year old gave me an idea. I don’t know why, but for some reason he started talking about pie on Friday or Saturday last week. “I want pie!” replaced his usual moan of “I’m bored!” for the past few days. And it got me thinking. What if, instead of Tuesday being the dreadful “music lessons” day, we looked forward to every Tuesday because it was “pie day?” Would that work? I decided to find out.

My little one likes apple, but in my mind this is the time of year for strawberry-rhubarb pie. Sure enough, they have no apple at Whole Foods, but they do have a stack of fresh baked strawberry-rhubarb pies. So I bought one and we took it home.

Now it turns out that, growing up in New England, it is no surprise that I think of Memorial Day as the beginning of strawberry-rhubarb season. That’s because it’s when rhubarb is ripe, and making pies out of rhubarb dates back to colonial new england, when there was precious little fresh vegetables to eat in May, and rhubarb was so bitter that it was practically inedible without sugar (hence the pies). But strawberries aren’t ripe until mid-June, right? Well, as it turns out, it’s all a misnomer. The kind of pie-making rhubarb they grew in New England was red, and so was called strawberry rhubarb. There weren’t any strawberries in strawberry rhubarb pie. That came much later, like the 20th century, and the era of frozen strawberries. But I digress.

So we got home, and cut up our strawberry-rhubarb pie. I expected some squawking from the six year old, but he was perfectly happy with the result. It was sweet and sticky, and slightly sour, and thoroughly delightfully pie-like. We all enjoyed our pie, and the tiring drive was forgotten.

I think I’m going to get to like Tuesdays.

The rooster has been a pest lately. At one year old, his spurs are just the right length, his legs are big and strong, and his hormones are at their aggressive peak. Even so, he’s easy to deal with if your hands are free. He can’t catch them both, so you just move your open hands to either side, wait till he lunges for one of them, and squish him into the ground with the other hand by placing it firmly between his shoulders. After a minute, you can let him go, and he’ll just walk away.

But this morning, I was in a hurry. I went into the run, where all nine hens and the rooster have been living, to change their food and water, and collect the morning eggs. I got into the run using a rake to push him back, since my hands were full of water and food. Once in, he left me alone, for the most part.

But getting out was not so easy. He knew I needed to get through the door, and he stood there, guarding it. My hands were empty, except for the one egg I’d collected from the laying bin. Knowing I’d need both hands, I gently slipped the egg into the hip pocket of my jeans, and bested the rooster in personal combat. I pushed him aside, and opened the door to the run to get out. Just as I slipped through, however, one of the chicks, the Buff Orpington (called “Buffy”, of course) slipped through the door and into the yard before I could close it.

At first she just stood there, as surprised as me that she had escaped the run. Then she started to run for it. As fast as I could I dived after her, grabbing her by the tail. That’s when I remembered I had a raw egg in my pocket.

I tossed Buffy unceremoniously into the run as I felt the liquid sliding down my hip pocket, onto my pens, my car keys, and… my cellphone. I pulled the shell and as much of the sticky mess as I could out of my pocket, and ripped my pants off to keep the egg from spreading.

There I was in my skivvies, trying to wipe all the egg yolk out of my cell-phone while the curious chickens looked on. Too late; the phone went black.

Defeated, I went upstairs, washed my pens and keys, cleaned up the phone, and changed my pants. Twelve hours later, the phone suddenly turned back on again. What an amazing device. What a wild, precious life it is. With chickens.

I’ve described “the birthday trips” before, but for those who haven’t heard it, here’s the strategy we use in our family to raise our kids to, in the words of Ayn Rand, “think of the world as their own back yard.”

When a child turns six years old, I will take them anywhere in the country of their choosing.

When a child turns twelve years old, I will take them anywhere in the world.

In each case it’s just the child and me. And the child is in charge for the duration of the trip. They call the shots, they give the directions. I keep them safe, and hold the money.

These “birthday trips” are rather pivotal in our children’s lives. I have seen amazing changes occur in our bigger two kids after their six year trips, and especially after their twelve year trips. Here is an entry for my daughter’s trip last year to Belize and Guatemala. So I’ve always been very proud of how the birthday trips have worked out.

This year, though, when my littlest turned six, I wasn’t a high-falooting executive with more money than time. I was a self-employed entrepreneur with no clear understanding of what the future would hold for us financially. And when my boy said he wanted to go “to the city in the desert”, I began to hyperventilate about the expense of taking him to Las Vegas. But there was the sanctity of the birthday trip to consider, and I agreed. Much to my delight, however, he changed his mind just before his birthday, and said he wanted to go “Geocamping”.

I think he had made the word up, but 20 questions later revealed that he wanted to drive somewhere and go car-camping, and then spend all our time looking for Geocaches. I breathed a sigh of relief, and booked a campsite for opening day in Litchfield, CT, just off of the Appalachian Trail (yes, it goes through CT!)

Now I’m not much of a camper; that’s mom’s territory. My idea of roughing it is when the hotel has a kitchen, and we cook some of our own meals. Sleeping on the ground is, to me, an oxymoron, and I suffer from chronic asthma. Nevertheless, he insisted he wanted me, not mom, to take him, and so on April 25th, we went.

It was wonderful, and he had a fantastic time. Sure, I was covered in soot, and terrified I had poisoned us both after each meal, but despite the burger that landed in the dirt, the campers talking to 1am, many mis-adventures and mis-steps, we had our fun. My boy just loved sitting by the campfire making s’mores, or eating breakfast, or just watching the fire burn up sticks and twigs. And me? I could sip coffee and watch him for hours.

That last morning, before we packed it up, my boy slept in. I made the fire, and brewed some of that wonderful, smoky, campfire coffee that is just unequaled in this life. I sat by the fire, listening to the birds, writing the beginnings of a new poem in my journal, and being grateful for this unexpectedly peaceful chapter in the book that makes up my life.

One
Wild
Precious
Life.

My wife and I had a mis-communication. I won’t go into it here, but the end result was that I had booked a family vacation to a location she wasn’t interested in, at a time that was quite inconvenient to her. Rather than be miserable, she stayed home, and I took the kids with me on a trip to Virginia Beach.

There isn’t much in Virginia Beach except, well, beach. A beautiful beach, steps away from the hotel. But April in Virginia is not beach weather, and we needed to wear jackets to brave the sand. Still, it is rather conveniently located two hours north of Roanoke Island (the site of the lost colony of 1587), two hours south of Jamestown, Williamsburg and Yorktown (the sites of the first successful English colony, the colonial capital for 100 years, and the conclusive battle that ended the Revolutionary war, respectively) and half an hour from Norfolk (the site of a huge naval center for more than 300 years.)

We had a great time. Each day we would pick a direction and explore this wonderful, historically rich area. The first day, I dragged the kids to Roanoke Island, and they went with good spirits, but from there on, I let them choose every destination, acting only as their adviser. In the end, we didn’t see Jamestown or Williamsburg, but my kids got to go to the battlefield site at Yorktown and learn about that important battle, walk on the deck of a Battleship, play in an underwater archeology museum, and see the biggest aquarium in North Carolina. In the end, everyone’s favorite site was “Jockey Ridge”, an active group of sand dunes in the Outer Banks that inspired the Wright Brothers to launch the first powered flight in 1903 off of Kill Devil Hill, about five miles to the north. What made Jockey Ridge so fun? Rolling down the face of the largest dune, at an angle of about 50 degrees or so. It felt like free-fall, and the speed and lack of control was breathtaking. We all loved it.

And my wife? She seems to have done just fine, enjoying our beautiful house for five days without kids. Nothing wrong with that. In the end, we all win.

One

wild

precious

life.

The chicks are getting pretty big. So big, in fact, that they have outgrown their toy box, and have enough feathers that they don’t need an incubator light any more. They’re still too little to put outside, though, and I can only imagine what would happen to them if we put them with our current flock. But they’re getting too big to keep in a box, too.

The solution? Pitch a tent in the living room, of course.

We’ve owned a little play tent for years, and it has alternately served as a basement campsite, a rocket ship, a pirate ship, and a princess castle, as the various needs of the children arose in succession. For the past year, though, it has been dormant, stored in the camping supplies area.

My wife got it out and set it up in the living room, with cardboard covering the tent floor, and then newspapers covering the cardboard. The seem happy, and we refer to it as their “playroom”. When they are put in during the day, they run around in circles and jump on each other, like they are playing tag, only everyone is it.

Their first night in the tent, though, they began “alarming”, making loud stressful cheeping noises while running in a cluster from corner to corner. I thought perhaps one of the house-cats had given them a scare, but then I remembered that chickens have a strong instinct to roost at night. One by one, I carried them back to their toy box, where they settled down and went to sleep.

Now they’ll go in the playroom during the day, and into their “crib” at night. But it won’t be long before they outgrow even their new tent. What then?

A year ago I didn’t even known what a mock trial was, even though this is the third year my oldest has participated. This year, though, I actually helped him prepare a little, and clued into the fact that he had made the High School team in his freshman year, which was an accomplishment. He won his trial at Yale, and the big regional competition was at New London Superior Court this weekend.

I have no idea if they had programs like this when I was young, but I sure wasn’t a part of them, if they did. Sure, I did the math league, but that was about it. But my oldest has competed at the State level for Math, Debate, Public Speaking, and he was really excited about the possibility of making it to state in Mock Trial as well.

Instead of being ignorant of the whole process, like I was in the bad old days of martinis and 10 hour days (not in that order), I drove over to New London to see him compete. It was really eye opening, to see these (usually grungy) teenagers dressed like lawyers, in suits and ties for the boys, suits, make-up and nylons for the girls women. The team did great, and I was blown away by the professionalism of these 15-16 year olds. My son’s team is almost all Freshmen and Sophomores (the third string for their school, which nevertheless made it into regionals), and they were up against a mixed team of mostly Juniors and Seniors. They won once and lost once, and didn’t get to go to state, but they took it very well. They had competed well, and held their own. My son came home disappointed, but proud. He had good reason:

My son did the seven minute closing argument for his side. He did it all without note cards, and he spoke with passion and logic, in a perfect mix. A father sitting next to me, not knowing it was my son speaking, said “I’m a defense attorney, and that’s one of the best closings I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard a lot.” After the competition, the judge gave comments on their work. Of his closing she said “I have done this for twenty years, and that is the best closing argument I have ever heard.”

I can’t believe all that I missed last year, and before. But I’m plugged in now, and I’m in for the duration of this

One

Wild,

Precious

Life.

_{and no, the picture isn’t of my son. they didn’t allow cameras. but the courtroom looked just like this}

Our local hardware store has an annual “chick day”, working with a local hatchery to supply new chicks to our pseudo-rural community in the CT river area. The hatchery starts 400 eggs four or so weeks before easter weekend. They bring the hatched chicks (375 this year) to shagbark’s lumber yard and sell them for $5 each. People usually start lining up at 8:00; they start selling the chicks at 10, and last year they ran out before lunch.

This year, we bought six chicks. Three barred rocks, one araucana, and two buff orpingtons. The buffs were only a few days old, but the rest were one to two weeks. The picture is of the barreds and the araucana, since the buffs were in their own smaller, hotter box.

We weren’t home for an hour before we realized one of the buffs was deformed. bad leg was the least of it’s problems; the bowels weren’t working well either. We began a vigil, separating her from the others and dropper-feeding and watering, but there was no way to save her in the end. She lasted less than 48 hours.

The kids all took it in stride. Death is part of keeping chickens after all, and that one just wasn’t meant to be. Still, it was hard to watch, as her cries got weaker and weaker, and finally she just stopped moving.

Now we are enjoying the five chicks that are left. All are healthy and happy. But I won’t soon forget the sixth.

One

Wild

Precious

Life.

It’s been there since Christmas. Growing, actually, and evolving. Every so often, someone will play with it; usually my littlest one. But the rest of the time, it just takes up space, and collects dust, and serves as an obstacle course for the cats. Today, the city measures more than ten feet across and eight feet wide, and has three levels.

To make enough space for this monument to Geo-Trax’ marketing strategy, we have moved the love seat to right in front of the fireplace, and scootched the dining room table closer to the kitchen, so that suddenly one feels crowded despite the enormity of our house.

But yesterday, I came downstairs after working on a technical report for six hours straight, to find my 13 year old daughter straightening the tracks and cleaning up the loose pieces, the vestigial sections that no longer served a purpose, and it made me smile.

Today, I made some hot cocoa, built a fire, put on the Indigo Girls, and sat in the cozy little love-seat so close to the fireplace that it felt like I was back in a cabin in the mountains, while the little one played a few feet behind me, driving his cars over the roof of the clock tower, or over the suspension bridge. That city ain’t so bad, after all.

One.

Wild.

Precious.

Life.

I hadn’t had dinner with this friend in years. We used to eat and drink well together, before I got married, and even after, for a time. But for 10 or more years, we have been drifting apart. We had a sudden cause to celebrate, and I decided to let my guest choose the venue and the expense. And while it was unbelievably expensive, it was also an unforgettable dinner.

Our wild and precious life is a series of experiences. Each one has a dark side, and a bright side. We can choose to dwell on the good parts or the bad parts of any event. And so, although this dinner had its dark side, I refuse to think of that, instead enjoying the magical parts of light. So no more on the cost.

We had a five course dinner at Troquet in Boston. At least it was supposed to be five courses. But my guest is well known at this restaurant, so the chef ignored the menu and instead made dish after dish to pair with the wines we had purchased. We even sent a glass of each of the wines to the kitchen, so he would be able to get the pairings exactly. And he did exactly that.

Dinner began with a bottle of 1996 Leflaive Chevalier Montrachet. We drank it first with oysters, then with diver sea scallops, then with langoustines. Each dish was perfect, and the wine was simply brilliant. I won’t bore you with the details; suffice it to say that there was a riot of flavor and taste and texture in every mouthful, and the wines just danced and sang along, weaving in and out of the courses like happy children.

The second bottle we opened was a 1985 Domaine Dujac Eschezeaux, which tasted more like a Clos St. Denis than a Vosne Romanee. this wine is extremely rare, and I have never had such a silky, subtle and delightful burgundy. We finished off the Leflaive and started the Dujac during the Fois Gras, served on a polenta cake with a brown sauce that was to die for. Then we had the lamb, and finished off the Dujac just sitting and reminiscing about other great dinners and wines we’d had together, and then talking about our lives, our loves, and our outlooks for the future.

It was a wonderful evening, and great to reconnect with an old friend. And eating exquisite food and insanely expensive wine is a luxury that few of us experience, and most of us cannot afford. But it is all part of

one

wild

precious

life.