Don't tell the dog we're going on vacation

because she gets nervous. Or maybe I am the one who gets nervous. I don’t know where this comes from, my travel anxiety. My need to scour the entire house, for example, before we can walk out the door. 

I mean, I love vacations, I just don’t like the part where you have to prep, to pack, to travel to get wherever you are going. My husband knows this about me after many many years of witnessing it, and mostly he goes with the flow. 

Okay, he says, I get why you want to have clean sheets on the bed, why you want the bathrooms to be clean, why you want to leave a detailed note for the dog sitter, but why are you—what are you—? 

He stops mid-step into the kitchen, where I am presently taking an orchid plant apart in the sink. 

(What led to this was we have an orchid that’s been dormant for two years and I thought it was dead and was ready to pitch it, but this morning I saw a Tik Tok video that shows step-by-step how to revive an orchid plant. It is truly amazing.) 

My husband is slowly shaking his head.

I was cleaning the sink, I explain, which led to me cleaning the windows above the sink and then clearing the plants off to dust the sill, and then I saw the orchid… 

He’s still shaking his head, and I notice him noticing the food I have set out on the counter, the travel snacks I’ve planned for the road. Tomatoes and basil I picked from the garden, which I’m readying to toss into a caprese salad. Fruit I’ve washed. Veggies I’ve cut to go with some hummus dip. The parsley and mint and onions I’m chopping to go into the—

Is that tabbouleh? My husband asks incredulously. Are you making a tabbouleh salad? 

But back to the dog. Typically, before we leave on vacation, she seems to catch my anxiety, whirling around behind me as I scour toilets and change sheets, and erm, revive orchid plants and prepare homemade tabbouleh salad. But the moment she sees us dragging the suitcases up from the basement, she goes into full blown terror mode, panting and crying. I have a brilliant idea as I tuck the now already-perky-looking orchid into a jar of water and set it back on the windowsill. 

Let’s not take out the suitcases! We’ll keep them in the basement and carry our clothes and toiletries down there to pack!

My husband busts out laughing, but God love him, this is exactly what we do. 

Let me tell you the secret of the orchid plant. Over time, the root ball gets tired and tangled up, pieces of it, shriveled and dead. But with a little patience, you can untangle it, cut off the dead bits, clean it all up and get the plant going again. 

Wait. I think what I am actually writing about here is not orchids or worried dogs, but about vacations and why, even though some people are always anxious before they embark upon one, they still need to GO. 

So, I go. I’m gone. I’m here. Away from home and only one day in, feeling untangled and revived. 

By the way, before we left, the dog figured it out. In the morning, as I tiptoed around packing the cooler with what my husband calls the Bougie Travel Snacks, while I thought the dog was still asleep upstairs, she woke up and caught my husband in the act of carrying the pillows out to the car. She paced around my legs and cried. I kissed her on the nose and told her what I always tell her before we leave the house. 

It's okay. We'll be back soon. 

 

 

Displanted

The day before Mother's Day my daughter left home to head back to school, a nine-hour drive, alone, one she's done several times before, but still sets my mom-nerves on edge. I dug around in my garden to keep my mind busy, poking green bean seeds in the ground and transplanting seedlings, every hour or so, my husband calling out updates of our daughter's progress.

He's got some tracking thingy on his phone, and yeah, I know, there's a creepy/stalker-y element to this, but we can't help it. We want to picture our child in the driver's seat, coasting along on her journey, the closest we will get to being in the car with her

she's crossing the bridge in Cincinnati 
she's approaching Louisville
she's an hour outside Mammoth Cave

I go back to my digging and poking and mulching, relieved for the moment that she's safe and that much nearer to her destination. For the last few years I've been planning my garden ahead of time, drawing the plots out on graph paper, no longer content to randomly throw things in the ground.

There's a weird comfort in setting the borders, arranging the plants. Each year my plans are more elaborate, more structured. One large bed grown into two, and then grown into four. And now I've got side beds filled with herbs, a rock garden, corners stuffed with potted plants. In winter I checked out a stack of garden design books from the library and read them like they were novels.

Something cool I learned: my four square garden pattern can be traced all the way back to monastery gardens in Medieval times. What is it about this particular structure, about any structure--

she's nearing the Tennessee border
she's on the other side of Nashville

Something sad I learned: My daughter has been away at school for two years now, and even though I am fully adjusted to empty-nester life, each time she comes back and then leaves again, it's a fresh loss.

I draw a line in the dirt for my marigolds, trying to envision them blooming like a flowery fence in front of my tomato plants.

she's outside the city
she's there, she's home

The dog trots out to bask in the sun as I nudge the seeds into the ground. I know how it goes. Mid summer and these bare beds will be dense with plants, the reality different, despite all of my planning, from what I can imagine today. Plants tangled up with other plants, some overgrown, some drooping. Weeds working there way through despite all of my mulching.

A pumpkin (did I even plant a pumpkin?) poking up in an unexpected place, hopping over the perfectly drawn border into the grass beyond.  

Random Thoughts on the Teacher/Writer Road (Part One)

First, I need to put it out there how much of a wimp I am when it comes to long solo driving trips. I've tried to analyze this sad fact about myself before. I think it's a mixture of boredom and anxiety. I'm alone. In the car. Treking down unfamiliar highways. I've laid out what I think I will need within fingertip reach:

Bottled water, cap loosened
A bag o' peanuts for snacking
My Yahoo map (as a back-up to my GPS)
An audio book for entertainment--all of the cds helpfully taken out of their sleeves for easy grabbing whilst driving

I have a weird thoughts when I am on the road. Passing through little towns clumped along the highway, I wonder, WHO lives in these little towns? Do these people ever look out their windows at the cars speeding past? I stop at a fast-food place or a gas station just off the interstate feeling like I am emerging from dreamy car cocoon, like I haven't talked to another human in years.

This particular trip I am driving through West Virginia. Snow blows around the car. The roads, for the most part, are empty. It's strange. As if the highway is rolling out ahead just for me. I shoot through tunnels that burrow under mountains and try not to have a panic attack. How big is this mountain anyway? How the heck did people once carve a tunnel through it? And then, whew, I am on the other side.

A shout out here to audio books. When they are good, they truly help pass the time. For this trip I am listening to the second book in the Raven Boys series by Maggie Stiefvater. God love the actor who's reading it. It's killing me how raspy and rich and deep the guy's voice is. Whenever I stop the car to take a bathroom break or stretch my legs in line for fries at Wendys, the guy's voice trails me out of the car. My dreams that night are filled with him.

I arrive at my first destination. To break up the trip, I'm staying with my aunt and uncle--dear relatives I have not seen in several years. I'm touched that they have invited extended family in the area to dinner in my honor.

This is a Dinner with a capital D. Turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes. Dessert and drinks. One of my cousins has a little girl who has read my book. Three times. She is carrying it around with her and smiling. I am blown away by this reception.

And then the visit is over all too soon and I am back in the car listening to the raspy-voiced guy again.

A side note here about how you set up school visits: It's all about who you know. (At least this is how it is for me at this early stage in my career.) I put the word out to my friends and family that I am available to do school visits--book talks and writing lessons etc. and the ones who happen to have connections to schools, set the visits in motion. Next thing you know I am standing in front of five classes of students, talking about the Hero's Journey as it pertains to biographies or expounding upon the revision process or offering tips on writing college essays.

I am eating lunch with budding writers and answering questions about writer's block and point of view and revising and thinking about how freaking insightful and creative kids are.

I must mention here that two girls, both fifth graders, offered me their manuscripts to read. I am always a little nervous about reading student work. I don't know what it is going to be like and I am very aware how vulnerable a beginning writer can be to criticism.

Well. I did not have to worry about these girls. I read both of their novels eagerly and easily, amazed at the level of sophistication and humor and suspense. Ten years from now, maybe less, I fully expect to see the books of Sofia C. and Abby F. on the bookstore shelves. And I have no doubt that one day they will be chugging around the highways and byways and visiting schools near you.

Tune in next week for the road home: The Polar Vortex edition...

A Former Teacher Turned Author Takes the Show on the Road

I was such an idealistic goofball when I stepped into my first classroom. I'd just turned 23 (only a few years older than the high school juniors I was teaching), but I told myself that I was much more mature and worldy and experienced than the "kids," as I called them.

Hey! I was armed with beautifully written lesson plans and a crazy English major-y love for Literature with a capital L. I pictured myself as the female version of the Robin Williams character in The Dead Poet's Society. Oh, I would stand upon my desk! I would spout Romantic Poetry! My passion would influence the students to start secret literary clubs!

Here's what actually happened:

1. Kids chatted while I was teaching. They roamed around the room. They raised their hands a lot to request passes to go to the bathroom. They came late (when they weren't skipping my class).

2. Only a handful of kids did the homework I assigned, and most of those cheated off each other.

3. A kid jumped out one of my windows.

4. Once, I caught a boy cheating during a test and I reprimanded him and he told me to do something that I will leave to your imagination. Blank My Blank was the gist of it. (He was suspended for three days.)

5. Several kids dropped out of school.

6. Several girls got pregnant.

7. A girl almost bled to death after being bitten by a pig (This is a story that I will leave for another time.)

7. I cried most days. Other days, I gazed out the window longingly and imagined myself jumping out (as the boy did) and taking off running up the hill. This momentary fantasy was actually a turning point. It made me laugh, and once I rediscovered my humor about all of this, I realized that maybe I could handle these kids.

It would take adjusting some of my expectations. And I'd have to be a little more tough. I swung too far in the other direction the next year, but I'd like to think that I found a proper balance between discipline and Robin Williams in the years that followed.

I loved teaching. I loved my students. (Er, most of them) I still dreamed of passing on a smidgen of my love for literature. But mostly, I just wanted to make my class a safe place where the kids knew what was expected, where they'd learn something occasionally, and maybe where we would all share a laugh or two.

It was hard to walk away from teaching to focus on pursuing my dream of becoming a published writer. And I must say that one of THE coolest things about being a published writer is that I am able to step back into the classroom again.

I'm visiting many schools this winter and spring, kicking all of this off with a whirlwind trip to North Carolina next week. Long time readers of On The Verge  know that solo travel is kinda challenging for me (see here), but I am happy to say that I am getting over this hump.

I thought it would be fun to post my impressions of my Writing/Teaching on the Road Trip. So tune in for that soon...

In the meantime, take a look at this adorably innocent yet terrified face of a first year teacher:

On the Book Tour Road: Confessions of an Anxious Traveler

Tomorrow I'm off to embark upon the second leg of the Thin Space Book Tour--otherwise known as the "The Tour through All the Places Where I've Lived slash Know People."

The first stop on this tour was Lexington Kentucky, my home for ten years, where I raised my kids through their pre-school/ elementary/some of middle school years, taught at an awesome creative and performing arts school, and experienced the hey day of my PTA-Carpooling-Uber Volunteer stage of life. (Update: I had a blast returning to my former school--where I did my first ever Power Point presentation. I loved catching up with old friends--my book club, PTA moms and dads, local writers and teachers and librarians and former students--and the signing at Morris Book Shop was so well-attended the store ran out of copies of my book. Woo!)

Stop Two is Nashville, and I must admit I am anxious for a variety of reasons, none of which have anything to do with the actual Book Signing/School Visiting/Public Speaking aspect of a book tour that might make other writers nervous.

The truth is I always get nervous before I travel. I love traveling but what I don't love is the actual getting to the new place part of the process.

I'm not thrilled with flying (the potential for missed connections/cancelled flights/lost baggage weighs on my mind. Also, plane crashes.) But I hate driving too. I think it's the combination of intense hyper-alertness intermingled with the mind-numbing boredom.

There's other stuff that goes along with gearing up for a trip that puts me over the edge, and usually I drive everyone my husband crazy in the days before we travel.

Example 1:

Packing. What do I pack? What will I wear? What is the weather like? What if I forget something important? My husband's answer to this rant is something along the lines of "I could be wrong, but I think they have stores where we are going."

Example 2:

Cleaning. Okay, this is totally my own weird idiosyncrasy, but every time I am about to leave on a trip, I feel compelled to clean my house. It's this thing where you know that when you come home you're going to have a bunch of dirty laundry and you're going to be tired from the trip and wouldn't it be nice to walk into a clean home? This compulsion manifests itself in scenarios like this: My husband is loading up the car and I am running around with a scrub brush scouring the toilets.

He yells at me to put the cleaning implement down and help him load the car and I yell at him to understand my mania and help me rearrange the silverware drawer. Big shocker: we don't always begin our vacations in the most chipper of moods.

Really, I am trying to work on my traveling anxiety. Especially today, the day before I leave on my Nashville solo road trip. It's hard though. I have a mile long list of things to do:

1. Revise a chapter in my WIP
2. change the cat litter
3. finish and post this blog
4. clean off the kitchen counter
5. Answer a bunch of emails
6. Vacuum the upstairs bedrooms

You get the picture.

And look at me, all efficient and productive and just about to finish number 3 on the list!

Readers, please say a quick prayer for me tomorrow as I set out on my 400+ mile drive, and if you happen to live in the Nashville metro area, pop into Parnassus Books to say hello, Saturday, Oct. 5 at 2:00. With any luck I will be dressed appropriately for the weather and the store will not run out of books.