When I walked into the Bear’s room this morning to wake him up and wish him a happy birthday, I asked if he felt big now.

“I feel just like I did before.”

“Hmmm, really?”

“Well, of course, Mama. I’ve always been big. Don’t you know that super heroes are big?”

Silly me.

Some days he is a super hero. He runs around the house trapping bad guys – or his big sister. He is prepared to save the world, if only it would ask. Please, world? Don’t you need saving?

Most days he is Luke Skywalker. Even his Sunday school teachers know, smiling as they hand back him papers signed “Luke.” He blasts the cats, describes ships of the battle fleet in minute detail, and carries around his light sabre so much that Moo knows how to duel with him, making wwwuuummmm-wwwwuuuummmmm noises the whole time.

The whole super hero/Star Wars thing is why I have to pay for soccer pictures, because he refuses to pose like a normal human being for me. But of course, he is not normal – he is super. See?

Under all this noisy, weapon-loving clamoring is a marshmallow center. It hurts his heart to be reprimanded, so he tells me every tiny thing that he may have done wrong, even things he almost did on accident but didn’t actually do. “It just makes me feel better,” he says. (Sounds charming. It’s actually very exhausting.) Loud music, wet clothes, or gooshey food are all bad. Bad!

But this same sensitive heart is so full from loving that he spills it all over the place. He is impatient to marry and has proposed half a dozen times, each time making sure to include candy. He reads Disney princess stories because THOSE princes have all the luck – where is his princess to defend? He adores his baby sister even when she is mean and wicked. And he may be crazy for money, but he will also try to give it all to you if he thinks it will make you happy.

It makes me catch my breath as he discovers music. He understands why a chord is supposed to sound that way. He loves the sound of the intertwining notes. When he is looking for something to do, he is as apt to wander to the piano as he is the Leapster. And I catch him humming his scales and exercises to himself. In key.

I can not believe it has been six years since his ten pound self wrestled into this world. He delights me every day.

Happy Birthday, Bear.

After a month and a half, I can safely say it: life is much better with no wheat. I remember telling my allergist when he thought it might be the culprit, “I can’t have a wheat allergy! I eat wheat at every meal!” He just gave me a look that said well, yeah.

It is exactly as horrible as you might think. Maybe worse. The hardest part was the first two weeks, when I was trying to figure out what I could eat. I ate a lot of rice, sweet potatoes, rice, peanut butter, and more rice. I would stand in front of the cupboard and cry because I was so hungry and everything in there had the dreaded ingredient in it.

Things are better now, a little. I’ve found a new love for corn tortillas and all that they are good for. I’ve gotten better at fixing meals that everyone can eat. And I’ve learned a few other things:

• As a wheat-free vegetarian, I am now officially the most annoying person on the planet to cook for. I even roll my eyes at myself.
• Getting the wheat out of my system took away the constant digestive upheaval so that I can now discover other things that do me in. The news isn’t great – anything on the Oral Allergy Syndrome list, even if it doesn’t make my mouth itch, even if it is cooked, is a guaranteed problem. And that simply reinforces my first point.
• After the first drop of eight pounds at the beginning, I have stopped losing weight. This, despite a rigorous exercise routine. Obviously, I am still finding calories.
• I’ve tried tons of “fake” wheat foods – pizza crust, English muffins, bread, crackers – they are universally disgusting. Brown rice tapioca bread, anyone? Um, no.
• God is good, because I am not allergic to coffee or dairy. Is it wrong to have Ben and Jerry’s for breakfast?

I start allergy shots in the fall, so with any luck at all I will be on the mend this time next year. Until then, you can have my spot in the drive-thru. I won’t be using it.

…from laughing until I have a snot bubble. Thank you, Buffalax.

When I was 18 and looking to choose a career, there was no indecision: I wanted to make my living in fine art. I loved painting, I enjoyed drawing, sculpture was great, but my main focus was ceramics. I wanted to be a production potter.

The people in my small home town were so unworthy of my future greatness. When a little old lady at church heard of my college plans she said, “Oh! So you’re artsy!” and I was genuinely annoyed. The word artsy  was for dowdy housewives who crocheted those little dolls whose skirts covered the extra toilet paper roll. I was going to create beauty. Never mind that my self-absorbed teen self couldn’t see that artsy types were creating what was beautiful to them – it was much more fun being a snob.

Fast forward to yesterday. The Princess began classes with a local artist. When I came to pick her up at the end of class, her teacher said that the Princess would need to buy some #6 pencils for sketching. I smiled and said that we a had a bunch lying around the house.

“Oh! So you’re an artist!” she said warmly.

You know what I said? I backtracked and denied the whole thing. I mumbled something about being an art major eons ago. And then, with my usual social gracefulness, practically ran to the other side of the studio to get that woman out of my personal space.

Because I’m not an artist. I am artsy now. I play with fiber dye, I mess around with paper, I take a few pictures, but I am now that puttering housewife that I scowled about long ago.

So what is the difference, and where is the middle ground? Why do I feel almost apologetic about what I create now? I am grateful for the humility that I have gained since I was that snotty teen artiste, but I wish I could pull back from the genuine sense of embarrassment and own what I do.

Somewhere in between lofty snob and lowly slug. It’s a smaller target than I thought.

(The first leg is here, and second leg is here.)

So far, things were going pretty well. The weather was sunny, I had nothing but time and road in front of me, and the first ride of the day had been kind. After my light snack, I was ready to get going again.

Cars zinged by as I waited. The lady in the white pickup had taken me all the way through to the southeast edge of Santa Fe and dropped me on Interstate 25 west. Being on a main road brought more possibilities and I leapfrogged from one vehicle to the next until I had worked my way through Albuquerque and ended up on a nowhere stretch of I-40.

I had time to scarf a few more crackers before a long black Chrysler driven by a little black man pulled over. “You need a ride?’ he hollered in a light Cajun accent. I got in, told him where I was headed, and he said he could take me as far as Gallup.

A lot of hitchhiker’s tales involve pretty strange people, even improbable people. I think it’s mainly because it takes an unusual mindset to pick up strangers off the side of the road and give them a ride. Whatever the case, my drivers so far had been pretty run of the mill – even the businesswoman that began the day. Now I found myself traveling with a character. What was a Cajun doing in the west armpit of New Mexico, anyway?

Oh, this and that. He spun tales about his kids, his jobs, different people he knew. He was one of the most talkative, jovial individuals I had ever encountered, punctuating his stories with raucous laughter. Then he interrupted himself. “Hey, what you got there?”

I had pulled my kit out of my pack and was rolling a cigarette. As a broke college student I economized by rolling my own from a can of loose tobacco rather than doing the logical thing and quitting. Since my ride was smoking, I figured it would be okay if I lit up, too.

I had underestimated – he was pleased as punch. “You’re good! I bet you roll a joint pretty good, too.” he laughed.

“Been known to.” I smiled.

“Well, girl, I got a friend in Gallup. I’ll set you up with some good weed for the road. I’ll just give it to yuh.” And he launched into a story about that friend, too.

Of the entire route to Sedona, the one place I had been told over and over not to stop was Gallup. By all accounts it was the La Brea tar pit of evil consequences for unsuspecting girls like me. It was violent, it was crime-ridden, and I had promised not to thumb there. Now I wasn’t just stopping, I was being driven around in it. You know those neighborhoods where you lock the doors on your car and hope you get green lights the whole way through? That’s where I was. But what could I do? Staying put was a much better option than getting out.

We wandered around, street to street. Now and then he would see someone he knew and pull over to ask if they had seen so-and-so because he needed weed for this girl he picked up on the freeway. They would nod hello. “You should see her roll a cigarette!” he cackled. He thought I was a novelty.

After what felt like forever, he admitted defeat and headed back to drop me off on I-40. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find him.” I assured him that, honestly, it was no big deal. He told me to be careful and to enjoy the rest of my trip. I said thanks, I would, and restrained myself from kneeling down and kissing the gravel shoulder as he drove away.

There wasn’t time to celebrate, anyway. I wanted to get going again as quickly as possible, so I started walking and waiting for the next car. It seemed like traffic was picking up and I wanted to be ready.

Woot!

Note: The first leg of the trip is here.

I woke up at daybreak after a cold, wary night. My fire was out. I had kept it going through the night, since I had only skimmed the surface of sleep. Cars were rushing down the highway just over the ridge so it was time to pack up and begin traveling in earnest.

It was a good morning to set out. The air was crisp, the sky still streaked with pink. I eased back through the barbed-wire fence, strapped on my pack, and started to walk. I felt blissfully unconnected from my life, my stuff, or anyone I knew. As I heard cars coming I turned around, chin thrust and thumb out, and waited for a ride.

I didn’t have to wait long. A white pickup pulled over and I trotted up to meet it. A woman in her late thirties with a smart, dark bob and business attire smiled at me and asked, “Need a ride?” What a great way to start the journey.

“Thanks!” I was on my way.

“Where are you headed?” She asked. As a rule, that’s the first question a driver asks when you hop in. When planning the trip, I had prepared a story.

“I’m going home to Sedona, Arizona, for spring break to see my folks.” It was believable and also let the driver know that someone was waiting for me on the other end. It seemed logical that I would be less likely to be hurt or messed with if I was expected somewhere.

I wasn’t stupid – I knew that hitchhiking had definite risks. So I had personal guidelines to minimize my chances of trouble. In addition to no riding at night, I wouldn’t ride in a vehicle with more than one man in it. I wouldn’t hitch in semi trucks. I would keep my backpack on my lap in case I needed to jump ship. I had pepper spray tucked into the sock that was nearest the passenger-side door. And if I ever got a weird feeling when someone pulled over, I would tell them thanks but no thanks and walk away. All in all, I figured I was pretty safe.

“Do your folks know you’re hitchhiking?” She asked me.

Lady, I thought, you have no idea. “Oh, no. My ride fell through at the last minute. I like the road, anyway.”

“I make a point of picking up girls like you. What you’re doing is dangerous, you know. It’s not like years ago – there are a lot of bad people out there. Anyway, I can get you safely to the other side of Santa Fe.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks.” I sat back and relaxed. It was worth a lecture to ride with someone so nice. It was usually the nice ones who lectured, anyway. I watched the scenery go by and we chatted back and forth until it was time to drop me back on the side of the road.

“You be safe, now. And think about catching a bus.” she admonished. Then I closed the truck’s door and she waved and drove away. I paused long enough to eat a few crackers and drink some water. The day still stretched long in front of me and I had far to go.

I zipped up my pack, slung it on my back, and started looking for another ride.

When you have a brother (that you adore and idolize) like this

who is determinined to conquer and destroy your big sister every day, all the time,

then you know exactly what to do with a sword.

Look out, Princess. She’s armed and dangerous!

Sixteen years ago I watched Mike and Rachel’s car drive away. I took a deep breath, turned around, and scanned the barbed wire fence that ran alongside the highway. Time to make camp.

***

It was spring break of my sophomore year in college and I was up for an adventure. Everyone in my motley crowd had been making big plans of one kind or another for weeks, and since I didn’t have anything better to do, I decided to hitchhike to Sedona, Arizona.

I asked around to see if anyone was up for joining me. A few of us were high on Kerouac and Edward Abbey, though I was the only female to enjoy hitching rides. And I had never taken a cross country trip. But since no one else was interested in coming, I started to plan a solo trek.

I looked at maps, gathered advice, and tied up my sleeping bag, totally confident in my ability to journey there and back in one piece. Although I would be starting out from my college town in southern Colorado, I wouldn’t be on my own for the first leg. A couple of friends were heading to Taos, New Mexico, for the week and could take me as far as Tres Piedras before they turned east. From there I would head south until making the fabled left turn at Albuquerque to travel I-40 into Arizona.

Why Sedona? Why not? I’d heard it was beautiful. Going there for spring break sounded like a lark. I had three dollars. I had a stash of crackers and cheese. I had a canteen. And I had the full support of everyone around me. Until the night before.

“Are you sure about this, Geph?”

“Hey, if you want to crash with us over break, you’re welcome to come…”

“Man, doing this alone may not be such a hot idea.”

You know why they were saying that? I knew it was because I was a woman. A bunch of the guys had traveled alone and no one ever showed any concern. Now here I was the morning of leaving and everyone was saying goodbye like they would never see me again. No way was I going to back out now. So I smiled and razzed them about their hangdog faces and got in the car.

***

Now Mike and Rach were gone. It was dusk and I needed to find a place to sleep. (Because I wanted to be on the safe side, I had vowed not to find rides after nightfall.) So I chucked my pack and bedroll over the fence and eased between the wires. On the other side there was a gully to camp in that would be out of the breeze and hide the light of a fire from the road. Homey.

Before it got too dark, I gathered firewood and laid out my little camp. It was a pitiful, sad start. Did you know that it is cold in northern New Mexico in April? And did you know that piñon pine is a bearcat to get burning? True and true. And once I got a fire going, and once I found a spot to sleep that didn’t have any cactus, I found out something I didn’t learn from reading all those adventures: dang, it’s lonely out there on your own.

My parents didn’t know where I was. I had no one to talk to. So I settled, fully clothed, into my bag and lay under the giant, clear sky to listen to the coyotes and wait for daybreak.

Great googly-moogly. Now even my kids’ cheese employs subtle propaganda.

Well, I’m sure she doesn’t use trollers. Probably catch-and-release, too, after apologizing to the fish.  

People, can we please just have lunch and leave the “Hug your Mother” politics out of it?