We ARE Virginia Tech

The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother's side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from the mother, and to become fully independent.

Erich Fromm

Yesterday, 32 families experienced a loss of incomprehensible magnitude, and as a nation and fellow members of the planet earth, we grieve with them and for them.

When the massacre at Columbine occurred, my Bethany was in high school, so the chill of fear was most palpable to me. We send our children off to school and entrust their care to others as we feverishly hope that we've taught them the skills they need in order to handle anything that gets thrown at them. I admit I was remiss in teaching my girls the intricacies of "duck and cover", "door barricading 101", and "creative ways to spend your time when your classroom is in lockdown". Call me irresponsible--I just never imagined that these were skills my kids would need to know!

As students were being slaughtered at Virginia Tech yesterday, my Alyssa, a senior at the University of Colorado, was attending classes in Boulder. Like the female students at Virginia Tech, she stumbled out of bed, brushed her hair into a pony tale, threw on jeans and a college-insignia sweatshirt, tossed her knapsack over her shoulder, popped her cell phone into her pocket and went to class. Like them, she is beautiful and brilliant and innocent, even if she does let her laundry pile up and can't return a piece of Tupperware to save her life. My fear is overwhelming. I want to call her right now and tell her to drop out, to blow off the last 5 weeks of school and come home where she will be out of harm's way. I want to call Bethany and tell her that she must commit to home-schooling baby Kaydi when she is old enough, for if the Amish children are not safe in their own schools, how will she be? Of course,, I cannot do that, for to do so would be to live a life ruled by fear, as opposed to one ruled by love. The logical unafraid piece of me knows that; the mother in me cannot fathom the unspeakable horror of knowing that one of my children would be slaughtered that way. I want them right in my sight, right now, so I can insure their safety.

Ever since my girls have been old enough to use the telephone, we have implemented the policy (oh hell--it's a requirement) of the "not dead" phone call. Only marginally tongue in cheek, this is known to my girls (and now to my Jeremy as well) as the 1. first thing one must do if one is going to be more than 10 minutes late 2. something they do every 12-24 hours if they are on an out-of-town trip, 3. something they must perform if they are doing anything--regardless of proximity to the mother ship (that would be me)--that involves them driving about in snowy weather conditions, or 4. something they must intuitively know is obligatory to perform on their part anytime I might be getting vaguely worried about their whereabouts. The "not dead phone call" is the check-in call they give so that I will rest easy, knowing that my world is intact, at least for the moment. My family knows they can get away with damn near anything as long as they don't lie to me and fervently practice the "not dead phone call" policy. As morbid as it sounds, it has alleviated many a sleepless night and it's one of the few things upon which I will not negotiate. Or, to paraphrase what my girls would say, "You'd better call and let Mom know you're okay, or she'll kill you!" Damn straight.

I heard today that as the emergency workers were removing the bodies of students from Norris Hall, that even as they did so, the students' cell phones, tucked into the pockets of their jeans and Virginia Tech hoodies, were ringing incessantly as anxious parents tried desperately to reach their kids, futilely waiting for the "hello, I'm okay" on the other end of the line. Those parents won't have the safe haven of having their kids answer the phone, and for them, their lives are irrevocably shattered.

When dear friends of mine lost their 18 year old daughter in a car crash a couple of years ago, her grieving father told me he "wasn't done". I knew immediately what he meant. Just because we send our children off to school and then to college, and after they marry and start families of their own, it doesn't mean we are "done". There is always more. More graduations, more hugs, more laughter, more grandbabies, more advice to give, more milestones, more chocolate cake, more experiences to share. No, we are not done......unless the Universe (or some crazed man with a gun) makes it so.

And then the icy grip of fear finds us...and we worry....and we imagine....and we grieve...

Oh! How far We've Come!

I roller skate. I ride my bike, don't drive no car. Don't go too fast, but I go pretty far. For somebody who don't drive, I've been all around the world. Some people say I've done all right for a girl.

Janis Joplin

Jump ahead one week. (Note: if you haven't read yesterday's entry, this one will make no sense, so go get caught up...we'll wait!) Hop on my bike with panniers firmly anchored and seat correctly adjusted. Water bottle (check), wallet (check), phone (check), sunscreen (double check), and helmet (check). Off I go. Out the door in under five minutes. A new record!

Piece of cake. My first stop was Seafood Landing at 20th & Wadsworth, where I picked up the freshest piece of halibut and the proprietor offered to pack it in ice for me for the safe bike trip home. No need--although the gesture was above and beyond what I would have expected. I swung back by the house and dropped the fish into the fridge and took off again--this time to St. Kilian's Cheese Shop, where I confidently wheeled my bike right up to the counter (like the well-prepared biker dudette that I am, I had my lock, but there was no one else in the shop and the door was wide enough, so why not?) This prompted not only my usual in-depth discussion of cheese, but lead to a chat about Lufthansa Airlines, which apparently is allowing fliers to take their bikes on board without any excess baggage fees. (if someone can verify this, email me or post a comment--what a great deal if it's true!). Nonchalantly tossing my Gouda into my panniers like I've done this for years as opposed to one week, I left the shop, decided I wanted some wine, so pedaled like an old pro over to the new Highlands Pedestrian Bridge (also suitable for bikes) and down to Platte St. to visit the folks over at Corks where I picked up a delightful bottle (okay--two bottles) of white to compliment my fish entree and then a quick saunter over to Savory Spice Shop --the obvious choice to pick up the embellishments for Mr. Hal E Butt.

Flipping my bike lock into my pannier with an attitude of great insouciance, I headed off. After stopping to catch my breath on the hill at the bottom of 29th Ave. (Hey--I said I was new at this!) I popped over to Denver Bread Company to fetch the bread I'd blown off in frustration the week before (who was that frazzled woman anyway?). Cut up to Simple Foods for the vegies and home again, warbling "I got a brand new pair of roller skates, you've got a brand new key" at the top of my lungs. Yes, neighbors, that was me.

Home! Done in less than an hour and a half. Now I am an old pro. Moral of the story? Barbara is right--you do have to be prepared to really suck at something (I'm paraphrasing--Barbara would never say "suck", I'm quite certain!) in order to get good at it! It's kind of fun, actually (at least now it is--wasn't so great when I was in the "sucking" stage). My new goal is to suck at something at least once a month and see where it leads me!

If it's not one thing, it's another!

Okay, so I'm on this new kick (actually, I hope it's more of a permanent lifestyle change than a "kick"--some things are too important to be merely a fad) of leaving my car in the garage and shopping locally. I've always been an avid walker, but last year's addition of a cruiser bike (translation by my kid's "old lady bike") to my household, widened my traveling horizons extensively. I hadn't used it much, having no way to transport items with it, but the gift of some perfect panniers (from my children and their significant others) for my birthday last month gave me the perfect opportunity to put my new local habits into action.

On Day 1, I eagerly plotted my first trip. Hannibal's journey across the Alps had less planning. I'd offered to make a deposit at Jeremy's bank, had books to drop off at the library, had my own banking to do and wanted to pick up a loaf of bread. It didn't sound particularly ambitious, but the prep time was a bit discouraging. Wallet, check book, cell phone, keys, helmet, air in tires--I figured I had it covered. I triumphantly trundled my bike complete with sparkling new panniers, out of the garage and out to 26th Ave, adjusted my mirror and hopped on.

As I rounded the corner, I realized that in my bicycle's recent trip to Wheat Ridge Cyclery for a tune up, the seat had been lowered to be just a tad too short. Stopping the bike on Yates--a mere two blocks from my starting point, I hopped off, flipped the lever to raise the seat, only to find that I couldn't press the level back into position as it was hitting the bracket of my newly installed panniers. Now, I have many talents, but bike mechanics is not one of them. I fiddled and pushed, and did manage to get the lever pushed over to a position that tightened the seat, if not locking it in all the way. I tested the seat--it held. Okay, I'll ride it this way until Jeremy can look at it. Off I went....about 10 feet before the right pannier fell off with a dull thump to the street. Back off the bike, causing the seat to twist so that the horn was facing two o'clock instead of high noon. Reapply pannier (more bike mechanics) and tie it down with bungy cords which I happened to have. Okay, this looks awful , but it's secure, at least and I can have Jeremy fix it when he gets home. (Jeremy's list was getting quite extensive and I was less than three blocks from the house!)

Wrenching the seat back into position, I took off again for approximately three blocks of pleasant riding, after which I realized I'd forgotten to bring my bike lock (how on earth was I going to go into all the local shops to run my errands if I didn't have the lock???) and had left my water bottle sitting on the kitchen table. With the seat twisting madly from side to side every time I stood up on the pedals (or dared turn my head for that matter) and the bungy-anchored pannier bag brushing up against the back of my heel with each rotation of the pedals, the car and the mall were starting to look pretty appealing.

Arrived at the library, where I was able to dump my books in the book return bin and avoid leaving the bike unlocked and unattended. Then, off to Jeremy's bank--scootching my butt every half block or so to straighten out the seat I got pretty good at it--although several motorists shot me some quizzical looks.

Now, keep in mind, that I am used to banking at my small neighborhood bank. I haven't set foot in a large banking institution in probably five years. The banking that Jeremy usually does is via the ATM, but I didn't have his card, so I had to go in and actually (gasp!) deal with a a human!I'd forgotten that large banks are very different from what I'm used to--very outside of my comfort zone. Very crowded! When I arrived, there were at least 15 people in line. I knew Jeremy was counting on me to make the deposit (and given the list of honey-do's I was accumulating for him, it seemed only fair that I complete the task) so with no other options, I ignored the bike rack conveniently placed outside the door and trucked into the branch--bike, bungied panniers and all. My plan was to leave the bike between the sets of double doors, which I could do, except for the fact that the counter for people to fill out deposit slips, etc. was right there. With options dwindling, I pushed the bike off to one side as best I could and prayed the customers ahead of me would move through quickly. They didn't. I stood in the line clutching my bike helmet (which ratted me out as the offensive boob who'd left her bike smack dab in the middle of the bank's entrance) and watched as people virtually straddled the bike in an attempt to fill out their forms. It would have been pretty funny actually, if I hadn't been so mortified. I made the deposit, murmured one final apology to the crowd (who were being mercifully kind and patient with me) and fled!

On the road again, where I developed a powerful thirst and had no water with which to quench it. Twist, twist, twist, went the seat, Plop, plop, plop went my heel brushing against the pannier. I blew off the bread shop and headed for my bank, where leaving the bike by the door and running in and out to do my own banking took all of 20 seconds, I finally headed for home, witnessing a near-miss that involved much squealing of tires and brakes along with verbal insults and finger-pointing (and you know which finger), that fortunately was between two cars and had nothing to do with me. Nonetheless it left me shaken and edgy.

Phew! Safe at last! When Jeremy came home, I proclaimed to him that it had been a "bad pannier day" (mostly because I like saying the word "pannier") He showed me what I was doing wrong with the seat and he tightened it up, modified the pannier to make it stay on and stop the heel-slapping business, and gave me appropriate spousal clucking and moral support. I put my lock in said pannier to keep it there for all times and Jeremy added a water bottle holder to my spiffy bike.

I'll post another blog that tells of my future bicycling adventures. Things have gotten much better. My friend and colleague Barbara Winter says if you want to learn to do something well, you need to be willing to do it badly at first. If that's true--and I believe it is--then I should be the best darn pannier-totin' bike rider Northwest Denver has ever seen!