The Downside of Optimism

In life, I am mostly an optimist. I am usually the person looking for the silver lining and trying to find the way to make the impossible happen. There are a few times I've crawled under the blankets, buried my head, and willed the world to end, but for the most part I get bored of that pretty quickly and start looking for a Plan B. Plan B always includes making the best of what I've got (like my car with parts of the engine duct taped together.) However, experience has taught me, well and often, there is always a downside to this euphoric optimism. Quite often, its overwhelming failure.

I had yet another chance to experience this last week on my family vacation to Yosemite. My extended family: father, siblings, nephews et al, were gathered for a fun filled few days in the most beautiful place in California. My 13-year-old nephew had decided in advance he wanted to climb to the top of Half Dome. This is a particularly strenuous and lengthy hike totaling about 10-12 hours of uphill commitment including a final portion which requires pulling yourself up the dome on cables. I was NOT hiking Half Dome, but a couple of my older ones were going to go along with my sister and brother-in-law.

The nice thing about the Half Dome hike is that there are several other points of interest along the way. (Points of interest means-- significantly accomplished smaller hikes where one doesn't have to feel like a loser for quitting at that location.) Below Half Dome there is Nevada Falls (top and bottom). Nevada Falls feeds into another lower waterfall-- Vernal Falls. Along the route to Vernal are several scenic "chicken-outs" like the base of the fall, the bridge view of the fall, the bridge view of the river created by the fall, and the shuttle stop at the bottom, for those weak of heart.

My original intent before we started the trip was to climb to the top of Vernal Falls. I've done it before (it's where I met my bear-friend.) I did it when I was three, I'm told. I did it again at 14 and 16. Now, twenty-four years later, I'm not in the same kind of shape I was in then. My shape is mostly "out-of" and rounded. I don't get a lot of exercise and I have not recovered back up to my full capacity since getting sick a couple years ago, but I wanted to at least try. I figured I'd do my best, see what I could manage, and feel good about the effort.

The entire group of twelve set off together bright and early our first morning in camp. If the Half Dome hikers wanted to reach the top and get back before it was completely dark, we needed to give them as much time as possible. Each member of our group had a plan as to how far they intended to travel. My youngest son, kept awake the night before by the first of several bear attacks, quit before he got out of his pajamas; opting instead to stay in camp and guard our valuables…like his cot and the inside of his sleeping bag. My hubby made it as far as the shuttle stop. He stood on the bridge and waved goodbye as the rest of us marched off into the depths of hell. My brother, who claims bad knees, was going to go as far as the bridge at the lower part of the falls. By this time I had decide that was all that was appropriate for me as well. I was having some difficulty with my joints and didn't feel confident with my ability to master the incredibly difficult climb to the top of the falls. My sister was fairly certain that was as far as her youngest would make it, and my youngest, who has difficulty with her legs was considering the same decision. So, the second brigade was planning a shame-free drop-out at the bottom of the falls.

I fell behind on the flat road headed to the trail. Yep. I was completely out of shape for this adventure. Even my diabetic, weak-kneed, older brother was out-pacing me by 30 yards. By the time we hit the deeply inclined, paved-path to the bridge I was holding everyone up. They continually had to wait for me to catch up. I felt bad. Not just for holding them up but physically bad. The altitude was high, the air was thin and I was being deprived my fair share. I decided at that point I would just go my own pace, take a bunch of photos, and quit when I decided I couldn't go any further. The next time I caught up with the stragglers from the front-assault team I informed them of my plan. I was out.

I collapsed on a small boulder and pretended not to be disappointed at my lack of progress. A few minutes later my youngest appeared, headed back toward me with a bag. She informed me that she too was dropping out earlier than planned and that she had been issued her lunch and my bottle of water before her departure. My cell-phone, for emergencies, was still up ahead in the backpack. (It's important that this information be included here, for later.) Together we decided to make our way at our own speed up the path. We figured we would turn back when we ran into the next set of failures on their way back down.

We walked a little. We rested a little. We took pictures of squirrels and glimpses of majestic scenery we were not able to fully realize. Every step of the way we promised each other we would just continue a little further, around the next bend, or over the next impossibly steep section of trail, before turning back. Each time we reached the proposed landmark we looked at each other, made an assessment about our condition and continued a little further. This is where the optimism took hold. At the slower pace I was feeling much better; much more like I could go further than expected. After all, I had already made it this far. This was the point where I made the decision to go for it. Not the whole "it." Just the bottom of the falls. I wanted my youngest to see the waterfall. It is an amazing site and should not be missed. Also, a small part of me wanted the victory for myself.

When we reached the bottom of Vernal Falls it was a dazzling, sunny morning. The air was cool, the water was beautiful, the birds were chirping. My body was high on those exercise endorphins you always hear about, but never experience. My brain was momentarily on a vacation of its own. My brother, having reached his stopping point, descended from the opposite side of the bridge as we refilled our water bottles at the last refill station. (It's important that this information be included here, for later.) He explained that the stairs up the mountainside began just a few yards up the path. For those of you unfamiliar, the remainder of the "hike" is a continuous rock staircase cut into the side of the mountain. The "stairs" are anywhere from six or seven inches tall to about two feet tall. They are about the width of a body and a half, and are used in both directions, which can be hairy, but since it is still early most people were only going up at this point. Because my brain, high on endorphins and swelling pride in my accomplishment, had taken a vacation, my daughter and I decide to venture around the other side of the bridge and up the first few stairs; just so she could see them and experience it. (Yeah right!) My brother offered to wait there for us.

The first few stairs were babies. My grandmother could do this. So…we continued on. Why not? The going was pretty easy, we made it this far, and we were feeling like Olympians. It was awhile before the stairs started to become deep, but when we looked behind us, saw how far we'd come, we felt pretty good about the choice to continue up the hill. We fantasized about catching up with the rest of the group at the top of the falls while they were having lunch. Speaking of lunch…. Did MY lunch come back in that bag? No. No it didn't, but my daughter decided this was a good time to try and grab a bite, so we climbed on some rocks and she chowed-down on her sandwich while I drank some more of my water. I was still feeling ok. I'd had a big carb-filled breakfast. Since we had come this far and we were feeling pretty good, we figured we could go a little further.

At this point the stairs were all about two feet tall but up ahead was the "Mist Trail" and I didn't want my daughter to miss out. The Mist Trail is the portion of the climb where you are so close to the waterfall that the mist showers over you. It also produces beautiful rainbows across the waterfall. It was here that I finally, seriously considered my need to turn back. It was crushing, because we had come so far, so close to the top, but the climb was nearing impossible, my knees were exhausted and my hip was locking up. The problem was, as exhausted as I was, there was no way I could possibly manage to climb safely down the slippery stairs. I could barely continue to proceed upward. Down was looking like it was out of the question and I was starting to worry. As we wound up the wet staircase there was a small alcove where the mud pooled, but you could pause, surrounded by the dark damp rocks and catch your breath. This was where I had decided I must stop and turn around before it was too late. I felt defeated. We came so close to success.

Here we encountered my oldest, on her way back down the stairs. We gathered in the alcove surrounded by the mist and the roar of the nearby waterfall. She informed us that the next group was begging-off the hike at the top of the falls. My dad, my sister, and her youngest were all dropping out, while my oldest son and her oldest son continued up toward Half Dome with my brother-in-law. My daughter had decided to take the short cut back down the stairs (because she is young and immortal.) The wiser old folks and the cranky little boy had opted for the longer, but "easier" Mule Trail down the backside of the mountain. There's an easier trail down? Hold on a minute. If I continue to ascend up the rest of the way to the top of the waterfall, I can take the inclined path back down? No stairs? Well that sounded like a plan. I get to make it all the way to the top, my original desire, AND I get to take the easy way back down. This was a win- win situation. We bid adieu to my oldest and asked her to give our regards to my brother, who we assumed was still waiting for us at the bottom of the falls, and to tell him not to wait anymore. Then we continued to the top of the waterfall.

Before deciding to continue on this trek, I did ask my daughter how much further we had to go. She estimated she had been hiking down for about 10 minutes. I estimated it would take us about 30 minutes to complete the climb to the top. It was about 11:30 am when we crossed paths with my oldest. We had been hiking for about two straight hours. I was afraid to drink too much of my water because I didn't want to be overwhelmed by my tiny bladder and the sounds of rushing water. The rocks were so steep now that I had to use my hands and knees to crawl up each step. I had to stop about every third step to rest. My knee was popping every time I struggled to step up. At one point, when we stopped to rest I accidentally left the bag with the rest of my daughter's lunch and my water bottle. She went back as soon as we realized it was gone, but couldn't find it. We had to share what was left in her bottle.

The final stretch, practically vertical, took us well over an hour. All I could do was dream of the "easy" trail back down. I didn't even care about the top of the falls. I hadn't looked at the waterfall since my camera battery died forty minutes ago, and I think I saw a mountain goat. I was praying for a bear to come and eat me when we reached the peak of our climb and I stepped out onto a long stretch of shale-like rock which descended to the edge of the waterfall. I had to carefully ease myself down holding the safety railing because the rocks were so smooth and my tennis shoes did not have the required traction. We stood on the edge of the fall and had our picture taken together. I felt a rush of pride and joy. I had successfully completed my once abandoned goal. This was an amazing feat for a fat woman. I literally carried an entire extra body up that mountain-- 1.6 miles, all uphill. I was excited to share the moment with my daughter. We conquered our own bodies. Our optimism, our slow and steady, won the race. We were victorious.

We found a spot to rest atop the waterfall. She took off her shoes and submerged her feet in the icy river water. I balanced on a pointy rock and looked for signs of the Mule Trail, and the bathroom. We decided not to linger here too long. It was already afternoon. We were both tired, hungry, and thirsty. We asked other people about the Mule Trail. Most people were unfamiliar with it. The only person to answer with any confidence said we had to continue the next mile and a half up to the top of the upper falls to get to it. She described more stairs and I decided to find someone with an answer I liked better. I finally found that person at the potty-shack. She and her daughter came down from the upper falls using the trail I wanted to get to. So we determined there was a connection somewhere between Nevada Falls and Vernal Falls where we could jump onto the Mule Trail.

Finally we found a "map" posted among some brush and trees. It pointed to the side of a mountain and showed the beginning of a nonexistent trail. My daughter wandered around the rocks until she caught sight of the trail further overhead. We had no idea where it began, but we could get to it from where we were. It involved more climbing up. From here, it appeared we would need to climb a bit further up the hillside, crest the top, and join up with the "John Muir Mule Trail" on the downside. The sun was high and hot, beating down on us as the afternoon burned on. No matter how long we hiked the road was never ending. The steps were much smaller (so much so that some were smaller than my shoes.) and the rocks were slippery and jagged. The "trail" was quite steep. We continued to zigzag on endless switchbacks up the mountainside for over an hour. We could not seem to reach the top. Mosquitoes were feasting on my sweating arms. We were sharing what water we had left. I was just wetting my mouth because I had come to accept we were going to die up there and I didn't want to have to pee in the bushes before I expired.
At this point my need for food had became a problem. I had used so much energy and replenished it with nothing and now I was feeling nauseous. I thought I was going to faint. I had to put my head between my knees (which I can't do because I'm too fat.) I wanted to quit altogether but that was not an option. This was not the sort of place Search and Rescue would find easily. Luckily my daughter still had her cell phone with her. We tried to call out, but couldn't reach anyone. Eventually she got a call back from her sister, who had made it back to camp. She explained to us that my sister and the rest of the group took the path up to Nevada Falls in search of the Mule Trail. Upon reaching the top of Nevada Falls, the Half Dome hikers realized they did not have enough water to continue the next four or five hours up the final leg of the journey. They had all turned back at that point and headed back down the trail we were trying to join. No one had heard from them since.

We kept walking up for another hour. My daughter was doing very well. She hiked up a span of rock and scouted a shady place. I left one resting point and followed. After a few minutes she headed up a bit further to scout the next stop. My hips were done for. I could barely lift my legs. I used her phone to try and call my husband. I was through. I was actually calling for help, completely embarrassed, but there was no answer. I didn't know what else to do but keep climbing. We had to be close. We were even with the top of Nevada Falls at this point. A few minutes later my daughter called out. She had reached the top and there she had encountered the rest of our group on their way down. They would have been much further passed us except my sister had worn an old pair of shoes and the sole was ripped half way off (it was taped on with electrical tape before we started out that morning.) This had slowed the frustrated progress of their group. Before I even reached the top my daughter and the rest of the downward group had taken off, leaving my lame sister and I in their dust, taking with them the remaining water and all the phones. At least they left her the bag of trash and she was able to share the corner crust of her discarded sandwich with me. Together we two cast-offs slowly descend the "easier" Mule Trail, which took another three hours! I fell at least once scraping the backs of my legs and my wrist. We were passed, on our way down by just about everyone who passed us on our way up the trail. By the time we reached the bottom the trip had taken over 8 hours. And we had walked approximately 6-7 miles total. My one-shoed sister probably could have done it in half the time, but she waited kindly for me. It took us another hour to ride the shuttle back to our camp and by the time I got there my oldest, and the son who stayed in bed, had taken water and a first-aid kit back to the trail head to search for us. (Have I mentioned how much I love my kids!) My husband got me a drink and a banana before I passed out on our bed and my dear sister actually prepared dinner for everyone. In the end, my success had turned to failure in the blink of an eye.

Upon reflection (which I had plenty of time for up there) I realized that my optimistic choices were what led me to my most difficult positions, not just on this hike, but in life. So often in life we know our limitations or the road we should travel, but our optimism, pride, or delusions of grandeur cause us to reach beyond these limitations. Sometimes we are successful and sometimes we fail. More often than not it’s a draw, a little bit of both, and we get pretty torn up along the way. I have made a lot of decisions in my life where I knew I was making a bad choice, doing what I wanted instead of what I should, and hoping for the best. Throughout my life I have made mistakes. A lot of them. And they have often been foolish choices I knew better than to make. In many ways they have made my journey harder. The rocks have been jagged and the climb has been steep. And even the short lived victories achieved this way have been followed by more pain and stress and failure.

But the truth is I believe this is a good thing. I could never say I made the mistake of climbing to the top of Vernal Falls at 40, with arthritis, hypopituitarism, an extra hundred pounds of body fat, and no water, if I had not optimistically overestimated my strengths and abilities. I could have stopped safely in any number of places and not known what I was missing, even if the only thing I was missing was the disaster which occurred. But why? Life is nothing if not a series of risks and challenges. If you are not risking something, if you are not challenging your boundaries what is the point of living? If you are living successfully you are living a series of mistakes, consequences and failures. It's what you do with them, how you let them shape you, what you learn, and how you laugh at them, that determines your success. It's knowing you can't quit, can't undo and can't call for help. You just have to find the strength within, no matter how tired you are, to drag yourself up one more hill, around one more corner, up one more step. The success isn't occasionally finding your way to the top, it's surviving the trip back down to the bottom; and surrounding yourself with the people who will be there, with their water bottles, one-soled shoes, first-aid kits, and bananas to share your journey with you. Because if you discover these things, these people, you're never a failure in life.

Photos taken on our trip. So you know it's true! :)

How I Perfected My Ventriloquism Skills

The last time I was in Yosemite National Park I was around 16 years old. I had been quite a few times before that, but an event on this final trip left such a lasting impression, I have not returned to this majestic place in 25 years. Now that we are wrapping up our adventurous summer with a big family gathering there, I am forced to revisit this event, and confront the fear it left within me.

I have spent most of my life camping-out in a tent for my "vacations". I have never been too thrilled with the idea that a piece of nylon was all that stood between me and Mother Nature, especially if she was big and growly with claws and an appetite. I'm not even really sure I feel protected from a squirrel that way. (Those who know my history with squirrels may understand this better than others.) On many occasions I have woken up to bear tracks in my campsite, or heard the clanging of utensils on frying pans in the not-distant-enough background. For those of you who are novice campers, this is a way to not only frighten away a bear (or a man on his way to the bathroom mistaken for a bear,) but also to frighten everyone within a 35 mile radius of said bear (or man.)

I have never had occasion to bang on a frying pan before, but have in many circumstances come in contact with people claiming to have "seen" a bear. I once opted to turn back from a trip to the restroom when a group of college-aged young men returning from the same adventure warned of a bear in the vicinity. Normally I would have been inclined to think they were just messing around and trying to scare my pretty sister and me, but for the one young man in their group walking backward with his flashlight pointed back behind the group, shining it nervously from side to side.

The last year I visited Yosemite was a banner year for bear. The rangers warned that there was a bumper crop that year, and they were highly inquisitive and learned. There was a slide show presentation upon arrival, of cars which had been opened like tin cans because someone had left a stray peanut inside. I did not feel good about my thin nylon barrier. Many pans tolled constantly through the night, but, being 16 I had the optimism of immortality bestowed on all young people. So I did what all youth does when confronted by mortality…. I ignored it and tried to go back to sleep.

Somewhere near the end of our stay our family took a hike up Vernal Falls. A very beautiful but steep and physically challenging feat. About half way up we stopped at a large expanse of rock just off the side of the waterfall to have a snack. Lots of other hikers were stopped there, further out on the rocks with blankets or towels, sitting close to the water. There were seven of us, my mother and step-father, my two older siblings and two close family friends (our age) like cousins. We selected a somewhat shady places closer to the bushes where there was a fallen log for seating. Unfortunately, there was not enough seating to accommodate the youngest. Isn't that always the way. So I sat on the ground a few feet in front of everyone else, probably pouting, and watching the water shoot passed us in this long flat part of the falls.

I had a candy bar and an orange for my snack. I had eaten the candy bar first (of course)and the wrapper was in my lap covered by the peels from the orange, waiting to be packed up with our trash and hiked back out. I watched my "cousin" Dan stroll casually passed me, further down the rock a few paces. He then turned, calm in his safety, and uttered a phrase I can still hear, "Hey look. A bear." Simultaneous to this I felt the brush of a squirrel tail against my bare back (Yes, I was wearing a fashionable crop-top, and No, I did not yet have my reputation with squirrels.) The two things didn't quite connect in my head at first-- fuzzy thing brushing up against me…hey look a bear. Hmmm. Fuzzy thing brushing up against me… …Hey look… a….BEAR!

Of course the connection clicked audibly as a pale cinnamon colored bear nosed around my shoulder and began sniffing at the orange poised before me like Snow White's poisoned apple. Oh My God! A BEAR! Live. In my face. Nosing around my lap. OH MY GOD A BEAR! I was completely frozen. Every muscle taut. I can still feel the pulling of the muscles at the backs of my calves, the way they were bent and flexed, ready to run but nowhere to go. A morbid smile pasted on my face that put The Joker to shame. My eyes moistened with tears that would not fall (apparently they were too terrified to move too.) My bear proceeded to lie on my lap, all comfy, and start pawing at the peels there. I think he was mostly interested in the candy wrapper. I can still recall his over-sized paws-- the weight of them, the claws. He didn't seem "aggressive" so much as "interested" but like all bad dates I just wanted to get rid of him and go home.

I don't know where she came from, or for that matter what she was thinking, but my mother crept quietly up on the other side of me. I know she was saying calming things, and in a calm voice, (which is awe inspiring) although I can't remember what any of them were. As near as I can recall the plan was to "distract" the bear and quickly "extract" the girl out from under him. I remember thinking I didn't like the plan, but since it was the only one, I was willing to do my part. So far, I was distracting the bear. That was no good. My mother gently plucked an orange peel from my lap, waved it in front of the bear's nose and chucked it a few feet away. The bear noted this with disinterest and returned to digging at my bare legs.

My mom continued to "tempt" him with little scraps as the bear took note of the orange in my hand and began to sniff at it. Then lick it. Then TASTE it! I was suddenly keenly aware that when he reached the bottom of the orange he could just continue on down my arm. Panic began to settle in. It was a calm panic. I still believed escape was a possibility(because I was young and immortal,) it was just starting to seem like I may have to leave a limb behind, and I was not wholeheartedly committed to that arrangement yet. I had always wanted to learn to play the piano. It was going to be a lot more difficult without my arm!
My mom waved another peel calmly, closer to his nose this time, a little more desperately. Now she was talking in soothing tones to the bear-- enticing it to "fetch." I think someone had put their arms under mine, ready to pull me away. I can't recall. I just studied the orange still frozen in my hand, in the air above my lap. Lips, slightly parted I distinctly began to utter the same phrase over and over, with increasing intensity. "Give…him…the…orange!" No muscles in my face moved, not a twitch. The same gruesome half-smile stuck there, eyes bulging from their sockets, "GIVE…HIM…THE…ORANGE!" We were running out of peels. "GIVE HIM THE ORANGE GIVE HIM THE ORANGE GIVE HIM THE..."

Suddenly, further down the rock someone popped the top on a can of soda. It echoed off the rocks. My bear looked up with curiosity and perhaps a sense of knowing. Someone, further down the rock had something far more attention worthy than my lousy orange. My bear stood up and started to wander in the direction of the "phftht" sound. I was whisked up and drug across the rock. A few people down the hill noticed the bear. Someone said it aloud. "Bear!" Commotion. People started to move too quickly and my bear realized it was play time and started to trot quickly down to his new found toys. I remember the sight of him galloping away. That's really all I recall. I can't remember if we continued up the falls or went back to our site. I can't recall how many more days we stayed and if I left our camp site again. What I do recall is that from that day forward I have been, legitimately, afraid of bears, and really good at ventriloquism. I am especially good at saying, "Give him the orange!" Ask me (you know you're going to) I can demonstrate, but only with the bugged eyes.

This is, approximately, my bear!

Now, whenever I tell this story people always ask the same question, "Was it a baby bear?" In all honesty, I don't give a damn. It was not full grown, but it was also not a "baby". It was a teenaged bear. However, YOU let a four-foot-tall, wild bear lay in your lap and eat out of your hand and THEN you tell me whether "size matters." I'll tell you that close up a teenaged bear is still really big, and really scary. I'll also remind you that where goes the child, so goes the really pissed-off mother bear. But, like the mother bear, my mom was there, right by my side, and voluntarily I might add, trying to attract the bear's attention onto herself and away from me. Inviting the wild beast to take an interest in her. Crazy!

I'd like to think that under similar circumstances my own motherly instincts would take over and that, without thought for myself, I would step between my child and a bear. I'd like to think that. But I just want it to be perfectly clear before we leave on this trip-- If I see a bear, if I hear the hammer of a wooden spoon on a frying pan, I will gone in a puff of smoke like the Road Runner, leaving nothing but a cloud of spinning dust in my wake. Have a nice day. Best of luck to you all. I'm outta here! If my kids think I react hysterically when a the cat brings a bird into the house, just wait until they see this! So, for the sake of my children, and my honor as a mother and a human being, I would like to repeat in written form my plea to my adolescent nephew-- Please! Please abandon your plan to try and "trap" a bear in our camp site this week. Spare Auntie Erin the embarrassment and the heart attack!

The (Old) Birds: An Epic Tale of Music Boxes and Betrayal

A couple of years ago, when I drove my youngest to summer camp in Santa Cruz, California, I decided to kill two birds and allow my oldest to make the long return drive home. She was still learning to drive and that kind of open highway can be a great final test. I made the unfamiliar drive up the coast and she made the drive home. On our way back down the coast we decided to make a small detour and visit the tourist town of Solvang. For those who don't know, Solvang is an "authentic" Danish village in the heart of California where you can get too many delicious snacks and intriguing trinkets for too high a price.

We pulled into town a little before five o'clock that evening and while the sun was still bright most of the shops in these types of towns close-up around that hour. The streets were quite literally abandoned as all the tourists had either moved on, or stumbled back to whatever local wine-tasting facility they had wandered off from. It looked disturbingly like a ghost town. I was disappointed she wouldn't get the full experience but since we were trying to get home before traffic got bad in the LA area, and we were really just taking a stretch break, it seemed to work out ok. She could get the gist and then return one day on her own for the full "bells and whistles" show.

We wandered through a shop or two, looking at healing crystals and other bohemian/ new age merchandise and bought some kind of chocolate in a shop which was just closing up. Luckily (or not) we discovered one of my all-time favorite shops in Solvang was still open. This particular establishment stockpiles the most superb music boxes (and other similar paraphernalia) in all the land. We'll call it Ye Olde Music Box Shoppe, for lack of wanting to get sued. This is my candy store. Everything tinkles and glitters and ticks and winds and rotates and performs on demand. It's a magical wonderland here and I was going to get to share that with my first born. A momentous occasion to be sure. A mother and daughter moment in the making. Perhaps the start of a tradition-- Years from now, both our children grown, we would return on our annual excursion and reminisce about that first time we made this journey together.

We entered the shop, stepping from the bright sunlight into the shaded entryway. Much like a Hobbit hole, this treasure chest seemed almost nestled into the earth. Immediately upon entering we were greeted by the lower temperature that comes from living in the shadow of an "authentic" Danish windmill and the smell of something trapped in time. There is a constant soft ticking from the wall of handmade cuckoo clocks, all with little figures which come out and dance or sing a happy little tune to announce the hour. This is no small shoppe either. It's jam packed with dust gathering tzotchkes for the most rabid collectors. Want to know what to get the woman who has everything? Ye Olde Music Box Shoppe has it! The walls are lined with glass and mirror shelves best for displaying these kinds of goodies. Nothing is crowded. Each item is displayed in its full glory with plenty of space around it for you to better appreciate its special qualities.

For the most part the place is empty. There are less than a dozen other patrons still wandering leisurely through the shelves, mostly some elderly folks probably reliving the glory days before radio. It has the quiet air of a library, making us want to whisper respectfully instead of speaking openly. An older woman is browsing near us and overhears our whispered conversation. 'They're really beautiful aren't they?' We nod appropriately, exchange a few niceties about what a lovely place this is, what fond memories etc, as we continue to browse through this first set of shelves. Granny is hanging to us pretty tightly and I'm a little concerned she may think we came in here together. She's sweet and all, but there's no room for her back in the car. I turn in an opposite direction and draw my daughter's attention to another item, figuring the woman will continue passed us on her own journey, but she sticks with us like arm-fat after a third baby. We pause around the second or third set of shelves to admire a musical guitar in a snow glob. Isn't it lovely. Wouldn't that be a great gift for your brother. (Yeah right. I'm sure that's what every 15 year old boy dreams of for his birthday!) Suddenly the old woman reaches out and snatches the music box off the shelf, winds it, shakes the snow, and places it back before us as it spins and plays.

I am dumbfounded. Typically I'm a bit of a klutz so I tend to avoid the handling of fragile items, especially if they are expensive and I don't want to own the broken pieces. When I do decide that I like an item enough to actually touch it I'm very cautious, protecting it as I lift it, replacing it gently and slowly. So I am still reeling from the shock of her caviler attack as she begins regaling me with information about its music selection and the nature of its origin. I smile and nod and walk backwards away from her shoving my daughter along behind me. A few steps away is a small set of stairs leading down into a deeper display area and as we descend these two or three steps we seem to lose the old gal in her own revelry.
I give my daughter the face-- the look that says "Oh my god. What the hell was that?" And she gives me the "I know. Can you believe it?" eyes in return. We shake our heads and giggle softly and move to the next set of music boxes. The first area had been filled with beautiful traditional pieces-- The simple music boxes with an ornate scene or item that spin in a little circle and play a song that matches the theme: "Love Me Tender" plays as two porcelain doves, exchanging a kiss, rotate on their little axis; "Fur Elise" tinkles away on a little player piano; a toe-shoed, pink ballerina twirls in perfect balance as the notes of "Music Box Dancer" plink from beneath her. But this section houses the truly elaborate and unique. My favorite piece, the reason I return over and over again to this shoppe, sits at eye level on the first shelf you encounter when you step down the stairs-- a full working carousel. About a foot tall the whole carousel rotates and the horses, with their miniature cotton-candy bearing riders, rise and fall as they revolve. Small lights flash and tiny mirrors reflect the joy of the viewer as it plays a carnival-esque melody. I could stand here all day, hypnotized by the whole routine, but there are so many other treats to behold I drag myself away.

Similar to the carousel there's a much smaller town fair going on in the first row of shelves. There's a Ferris-wheel and a tea-cup-ride and other various related pleasures. My daughter stops in front of a fascinating piece only slightly smaller than my merry-go-round. It's a small stage. The curtain is closed and it is labeled "The Nutcracker in Three Parts." She flips the switch and the curtain opens. As the music plays a pair of dancers spin onto the stage, dance for a moment, then leave as the curtain closes. The curtain opens again on an entirely new scene. More dancers enter, perform, and exit as the curtain closes. Finally the whole thing happens one more time before the show ends and the curtains close for good. Exquisite. We can hardly contain our applause. My daughter marvels at how much her best friend, a dancer, would adore this. I marvel at the craftsmanship... and the price. Fair to say I have diamonds that cost less (although their quality and "authenticity" may be called into question.) As we stand there admiring, an older gentleman approaches from my daughter's left and comments on the music box. Still lulled by our fascination we exchange a few brief words about its beauty and move further down the row. I think he may still have been talking.

At the end of the aisle is a display of items pertaining to "The Wizard of Oz." We quietly begin discussing the Children's Theater organization we are involved with back home-- how this reminds us of doing that show, how wonderful one of these would be as a gift or silent auction item. The older gentleman, who has managed to wander back up to us, uses our exchange to strike-up a conversation with my daughter-- Oh she does musical theater? For how long? What a wonderful opportunity. She is chatting up a storm selling the program's greatest strengths. He begins telling her about the local Karaoke night here in town. He suggests she should go. They need some strong singers. She mentions that we are just passing through. They continue to exchange polite conversation and I pull ahead, endeavoring down an aisle with more pop culture items. Less to my liking than the carousels, Ferris-wheels, and theaters, but still pretty to look at. (I am the Queen Mum of literal window shoppe-ers.) When I pause to look at a "Lord of the Rings" set I notice a giant crystal dragon perched on a mountain top, wings spread, ready for flight. Something I imagine my other son would enjoy. (Because he's only 13 and there still may be a chance to turn him.) I ponder there a moment too long. A man coming down the aisle in the opposite direction catches up to me. He makes a comment about the Harry Potter statues. I nod make an "mmhmm" sound and turn sharply to my left, cutting back, circling behind him and heading the rest of the way on to the final aisle in the lower section.

My daughter has fallen behind as the man I ditched closes in on her from the other side like a Velociraptor. I am keeping my eyes on the situation as I pretend to examine a wall of Anniversary Clocks like the one my parents had. Some hang on the wall and some sit on a low counter, but they all share the commonality of some sort of revolving, spherically shaped pendulum pieces that spin below the clock's face. The ones on the counter are like my parent's. The clock face stands on pillars with the balls twirling beneath it, closed in a glass case like the Enchanted Rose in Disney's "Beauty and the Beast." The ones hanging on the wall are a bit more contemporary, still spinning but with a more modern twist of one sort or another. Nothing I like as much as the one I grew up with.

While I am peripherally watching my daughter trying to extract herself to my left, an older man silently appears to my right, as though he has risen from the floor or appeared from vapor. I am completely unaware of his presence until he speaks, "These ones here light up." He immediately reaches forward and begins pushing buttons and turning knobs. Each clock begins to whir and spin and one begins to glow neon and sing an Elvis tune. My mouth agape in awe. Where the hell did this guy come from? I look at the spot on the floor where he magically appeared for only the briefest moment, trying to find the answer, before panic sets in. I speak not a word. I quickly place my left foot behind my right, calling upon my long unused dancer's skills and pirouette around a half turn into a leap. I make my break and as I do, two things occur to me: One, no one in the store with us is under the age of 70. Two, we are the only two not employed here! Everyone we assumed was a fellow browsing customer is actually a sales person, confined to a certain area. Plants! In slow motion I see myself sprinting passed the aisle my daughter is trying to maneuver. The man who wants her to do Karaoke has stopped at the boundary of his section, but he still continues to try and entice her back stretching with zombie-like arms in her direction. The Harry Potter man is hot on her tail, doing his best to keep up with her, but slowed by what may have been a hip replacement. Her eyes are a mirror of mine. Sheer panic. I suddenly feel like Tippi Hedren in "The Birds." Everywhere I look there is a calm old person, confined, waiting, watching, silent but for the sound of their pace-maker regulated breathing.

I am instantly determined to get out of this creepy place. As I approach the stairs Granny hovers at the top, perched by the handrail which divides the up and down sides. I slide passed her as she extends a claw and offers some sort of discount. At the top of the stairs I look down the aisle. There is a counter on either side. One is in front of the wall of clocks and contains trinkets and jewelry. The opposite side contains Pet Rock figurines. (Little polished pebbles and stones, with googley eyes glued on them and placed in peculiar situations-- sitting behind stone desks in "the office"; one big googley-eyed rock looking over several baby googley-eyed pebbles; a googley-eyed rock with a fishing pole and miniature fishing hat glued to it.) At the end of this row of counters I can see the door. Bright light struggles to break the barrier, pushed back by the impending darkness and gloom of Ye Really Olde People Shoppe. Each countertop is manned by an elderly woman. How can this place afford to employ one old person per 5 square feet? Maybe they can't. Maybe they are trapped here in some devilish, time-ravaging, soul-stealing trap. Maybe I'm next!

I spare the briefest thought for the fallen. My daughter. I can always mount a search and rescue after my escape but one of us has to make it out alive to warn others. It's our civic duty. Besides, it's her own fault. I told her a million times, "Never talk to strangers." She knew the mission was dangerous when she took it. Well, maybe not, but its every woman for herself now and I know she can out-sprint me. May God save her soul. I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me. I hope it's her, but I can't be sure.

I begin my advance on the door. The two women behind the counters hobble parallel to me. One falls behind almost immediately but the one to my left is spry. "Would you like to see some earrings?" she howls as I pull ahead. The light assaults my eyes as I close-in on the door. Suddenly, a large figure looms in the lighted doorway. An aged Lurch-like figure is running interference for the cronies. There is a loud whirring sound all around me. Is that helicopters? Do I smell Napalm? (I'm too young for Vietnam flashbacks!) No. Wait...I think that's Bengay. The whirring abruptly explodes into a array of chimes, crows, bells and other various racket as the Hell-Wall of cuckoo clocks bursts into a menagerie of noise. (Maybe hearing this every hour is what drove these poor souls over the edge.) I tuck my purse up under my arm and hunker down for my end-run around Lurch. He attempts to place a curse on me as I barrel, shoulder first, passed him. The spell sounds something like 'Have a nice day. Come again,' but I'm not sure because it was drowned out by someone's high pitched scream of "You'll never take me alive!"

I'm blinded by the light as it washes over me. I turn just in time to reach for my daughter's hand, clawing her way out of the darkness. As I pull her to me the door closes and the sign flips to read "Closed." I think I heard cackling. We stood clinging to each other in the fading sunlight, panting but relieved to have escaped with our good looks and young skin. She turns her head and looks up at me, her face awash in horror and says, "I can't believe you tried to ditch me!"

So much for that magical Mother/Daughter experience.

(Note from the Author: I have awakened one too many nights, amid a pre-menopausal hot-flash, to the screaming of the cuckoo; the resonating, "Would you like to see some earrings," still hanging heavy in the air. As you can tell the vivid details of my experience have never left me. Like all good horror stories, there must be a sequel and so, for your benefit I am embarking on my first trip back to the dainty Danish village of my nightmares. I feel it is my duty to unearth more of this mystery. The story must be told. This time, for safety sake, I will be heavily armed. I'm taking the whole family (including my seventy something Mother-in-law!) If things go well I'm considering the titles: "Return of the Old Birds ...This Time It's Personal!" OR "The Hills Have Googley Eyes!" If things do not go well, and you don't see any more of me, it's important that you know...I WANT YOU TO COME AND GET ME!)

How I Spent My Summer Vacation(s)

Road trips have always been my favorite type of travel for as long as I can remember. I came from a generation which spent a lot of our vacation time on the road, possibly because it was the cheapest form of travel, I don’t know. My earliest memories of family vacations involve packing up the big green Travel-all (the 70’s version of a Suburban/ Tank crossover,) and hitting the road. I’m sure it didn’t happen as often as I recall but it seems that every trip began with some disaster on the home-front, like the pipes bursting just as everyone was loaded in the car. Once that was resolved it was smooth sailing for all but the one with the useless bladder, me. Prepared as always, my mother had created amazing road-trip packages for each of us, filled with everything a child needed to survive a two or three (or fifty) hour journey. This was before hand-held video games and TV’s in cars. We had to amuse ourselves. There were games which involved getting little magnetic capsules in designated holes, paper-dolls, plastic dinosaurs, comic books and license plate bingo cards. Everyone had a plastic cup with a straw and lid too. I spent the early years being "the kid who had to pee", which is better than my later years as "the kid who had to throw up" (humans were not meant to travel facing backward in a station wagon with an antsy dog!) As a child I saw every toilet up and down the West Coast at one point or another.

After my parent's divorce, family travel became two very different experiences. Mom made marathon drives. We left before the sunrise so we could “sleep through the ugly parts.” She would choose the longer route with “more to look at.” I don’t see how the cows on Route 5 and Route 99 differ but apparently one was more aesthetically pleasing. If you have ever taken a road trip, anywhere in California, you will understand. No matter where you go, you end up looking at cows. Cows in the meadows, cows in the desert, cows by lakes, cows in the trucks that pass you on the highway. The entire state is cows, interrupted by the occasional horse. These back roads also crossed through more towns--for the girl who needed to pee all the time (even after I outgrew that phase.) The benefit was “look at the pretty town” the drawback was “do these backwater hicks drive 12 miles per hour ALL the time, or just when we come to town?” Traveling off the beaten track also means eating in some interesting locations. Thank God for the mass explosion of McDonald’s drive-thrus in the early 80’s!

Part of these marathon trips was the “we don’t stop till we get there” mentality. Once we were all piled in the car, we stopped for nothing (despite choosing the most bathroom littered piece of highway.) All stops slowed us down and cut into the “vacation” time. I finally learned the trick to get a little breather was to mention how sick the dog looked. We could always stop for the dog. This was the age where I was moved into the backward facing seat in the station wagon. The seat no air-conditioning reaches, so they would crack the back window filling the area with exhaust fumes. What a magical, braincell-killing journey. Then we hit the winding mountain roads which is when I earned my new reputation as the girl who gets car sick. Once as an adult with children of my own my mother cautioned which road I should avoid taking to visit her, “Don’t take the Feather River, you get carsick.” One time! And I was 7! But we were forever banned from taking that route again, because “Erin gets carsick.” Instead we took the longer, windier logging road, where only two wheels of our car were on the road at a time, and the logging trucks were happy to run us over or off the road, our choice. I never much cared for these trips because the focus was the destination and not the journey. We eventually got where we were going, but it almost always involved a lot of tears and at least one change of pants (because the dog threw up on me, not because I peed.)

Road trips with my Dad were the exact opposite: Windows down, forward facing, stereo blasting, open road and exploration. “Want to stop in this rinky-dink village for lunch?” “Let’s find somewhere strange and bizarre to get lost.” “When did we pass our turn off?” I have had the best adventures on these trips because the travel was part of the vacation. One of my best road trips with my Dad involved the rare airplane. I don’t do airplanes, but this was Europe, so…yeah. As a graduation gift my Dad gave me a whirlwind college tour of Europe. Not wanting to be alone I took my Dad and my brother and sister along. We traveled by bus from country to country and true to travel with Dad it was one heck of a trip. Or so I’m told. I would probably remember more of it had he not taught us all his college drinking games. I saw a lot of art and architecture, and the interior of a lot of hole-in-the-wall taverns. But I loved every minute and can’t wait to go back. One day. These trips were the ones where I truly developed my love of road tripping.

In my young adult life I adopted these practices for my own. Several road trips with girlfriends ended surprisingly well, with everyone alive, in one piece, and in the same place, although in the days before cell phones that was a much bigger accomplishment than you can imagine. One such trip involved traveling to Solvang and “just stopping at a hotel.” Who knew that in peek summer travel time someone would expect you to have made a reservation? We ended up in a crazy motel off the beaten track on some back road, trying to describe our location to the friend following us up later. She found us sometime in the wee hours of the morn, hopping mad and exhausted. But the trip was a success and provided long time memories which are just beginning to fade. These intrepid explorers were the same who joined me on a road trip to camp on the beach, where we judiciously left just before sunset and managed to pitch our tent in the sand in the pitch black, only to find we had chosen ocean front property when the tide came in that morning. Good times.

My last road trip with the group was when I was 5 months pregnant with my first. After that my trips became my own family vacations. Most of these have been trips to visit relatives and camping trips. My last hotel vacation may have been my honeymoon. Camping is still one of my favs as far as flexibility and fun, but I could stand a few more vacations that don’t involve sleeping in the dirt and peeing in the woods. We took a cruise a few years ago and that is an adventure one should get at least once in life. Traveling with my kids is a joyful, hysterical, and spontaneous experience. Now that the kids are older I have taken a road trip the last three summers with various groupings. I taught my oldest to drive on a road trip to Santa Cruz a few summers ago. The last two summers we have traveled to Reno to visit my Dad. We have eaten in dives; gotten lost on dark Deliverance-esque back-roads; seen the world’s finest “really awesome fresh beef jerky” money can buy; (but not eaten any because no jerky is worth $9 for 4oz!) and played pool in Sinatra’s Hotel straddling the border between two states. I hope these will be among their favorite memories with me. I know they are some of our best times together. Now when I pee my pants, it’s from laughing too hard.

Certain traditions will always remain: the circle around the block for whatever important item was forgotten and quickly remembered before we got too far; the item too far gone to return for, which someone will spend the rest of the trip pining over; the nail biting mechanical issue which makes everyone fearful of being stranded roadside as steam pours out into the thick, hot, afternoon air; the “are we there yet” and “let's get personal knowledge of every gas station restroom from here to Alaska”; the wild, exhausted roll from the car, overcome by excitement for your arrival, and depression that “this is it?” and “what do you mean we still have to set-up camp?” But seriously, is there any better way to travel? I think not.