Letting Go and Holding on Tight

One thing defines 2013 for me: the loss of Aidan. He died in 2012, but we spent 2013 trying to learn how to live our Aidan-less lives.

I still have days, like Sunday a week ago, when I cry so hard and for so long that I'm exhausted and ready to go back to bed by 2 p.m. But then days go by when I only cry a little bit, like today. I shed a few tears when I write about him; or when I see something Aidan-esque, such as a manatee, a toy train, or a Pokemon; or when I walk past the table that holds photos, cards, and mementos. Mr. Peevie has moments, hours, and days like this, too.

Seattle

I think this is what getting through grief looks like. Midway through the year I said to the therapist, I don't know how to do this, how to walk through this dark valley. He said, "You're doing it." I suppose what he meant was that I was getting out of bed, working, taking care of my family--sometimes badly, and always with the constant presence of Aidan's absence, but I was doing it.

We took a family vacation to Seattle in late June. We had a fabulous trip--as as perfect as it could be without Aidan. Everything is measured by that yardstick, now; everything is viewed through the lens of not having Aidan. Our photographs have two kids in them, instead of three. We asked for a table for four at dinner; we purchased four bus tickets; four people divide easily between two beds. 

Two kids rolling down a hill instead of three.

In August we attended the wedding of friends whom Aidan loved, and who loved Aidan. I started to cry from the moment the groom looked down the aisle at his bride as her father walked her to the front of the church. I cried for Aidan and for our lost future; I cried because Aidan did not get to see his friends' beautiful ceremony, because he won't have his own, or stand next to C. Peevie and M. Peevie at theirs.

I had lunch with a friend later that month, and our conversation covered many topics--but later she said she felt that every conversation should be about Aidan and about our loss, about our missing him. This notion felt exactly right to me. For a long time nothing else mattered except that Aidan was gone.

I think this is at the Space Needle.

His loss was a bleeding, internal wound that would never heal. It was chronic and debilitating. 

There are still times that nothing else matters except that Aidan is not here. Bereavement obstructs my work, my relationships, even my faith. In church, there are still times when I cannot worship, pray, confess, commune, or greet because all I can be and feel is that I have lost Aidan-- which feels incompatible with worship, and especially with confession. I can look at Jesus, but only as a sufferer, not as a sinner. It's like I exist on two different planes, or in two different dimensions; or I'm schizophrenic. If one personality has surfaced, the other recedes. 

But one year, one month and twenty-one days later, I can see that my grieving has changed from what it used to be, when it consumed most of my waking hours. It is still a constant presence, but it is no longer constantly debilitating. Bereavement has changed me--it has changed all of us--but this new, bereaved me is slowly re-learning how to do relationships, work, and worship all over again.

Part of me feels that this reduction in debilitation is a betrayal of Aidan, like I don't love him enough to keep on suffering the most intense and painful grief. But if I let myself go down that rabbit-hole of despair, I would spend the rest of my life not just grieving, but clinically depressed and possibly suicidal. So I remind myself that moving through grief and letting go of the empty despair of those first few weeks and months is the right thing to do for myself, my family, and for Aidan's memory.

Aidan and Mr. Peevie in Colorado, 2011.

Continuing to let go of debilitating grief, but holding on tight to Aidan, to my memories of him, to the things he loved and valued, and to the lessons he taught me--this is where I hope 2014 will take me. 

But god, I miss that kid.

Vagina Dialogues, Revisited

I stopped at Trader Joe's to pick up some wine and noshes on Friday, before heading out of town with my girl peeps.  "Have fun, and behave yourself!" said the cheerful clerk.  (They're always cheerful at Trader Joe's.  It's part of the job description.)

"Make up your mind," I said hilariously.  "Have fun, or behave myself?"  Aaahhh-hahahahaha.  I do love my own sense of humor.

This group of peeps has vacayed together before; the stories are recounted in Vagina Dialogues I, II, III and IV.  This trip we were down three members (four if you include L-Tiny): Vespinator moved to Germany (how rude), Rock Star is promoting her new CD on a 10-day Midwest tour, and the Professor is re-prioritizing.  

We navigated Friday night traffic, met up with peeps along the way, and came up with the first catch-phrase of the weekend:  "This trip is a well-oiled machine," J. Cool kept saying, "Well-oiled machine.  Everything is under control and running smoothly."  This, after she spent an hour-and-a-half driving less than ten miles from her house to my house.

We finally arrived at the cabin in the woods around 10 p.m., and we were more than ready to tip a glass of wine or two.  Somehow we stayed up well past midnight--two of us until 3 a.m.--eating cheese and drinking wine with labels like Pirate Booty and Evil Twin.  Our conversational topics included boyfriends, movies, kids, jobs, house renovating, and the pronunciation of "gor-GON-zola" and "PAP-ricka."

We also discussed our plans to go kayaking the next morning, which ONE OF US had spent HOURS researching and planning.  After the long drive and several glasses of wine, the thought of spending a couple of damp hours testing our upper body strength against a swift current did not sound appealing to one or two group members.  Actually, all of them, except me.

The next morning we again debated the merits of going kayaking on the scenic Pigeon River.  The day was overcast and chilly, and the stakeholders were sort of inclined to noodle around antique shops and go to wine tastings rather than getting in touch with their inner outdoorswoman.

"It's so gloomy," one whined.

"My broken rib still hurts," complained the accident-prone one.

"I hate nature," said a third.

"Two-and-a-half hours?" they chorused.  "My muscles are sore just thinking about it."

We put Skip, the cheerful and obliging shop-keeper at Kayak-Kayak in Holland, MI, on speaker-phone.  "Tell you what," he said tinnily.  "Come on over to the shop, and I'll drive you down to the river.  If it's raining too much, I'll refund all your money."  This was a more-than-reasonable offer, and we headed up to Holland.  (Or is that down to Holland?  I'm bad at geography.)  It started drizzling, then really raining on the drive up, and Bob the Builder could not let it go.

"Here, E. Peevie," she said helpfully, "you can borrow my sunglasses."  Beat.  "They'll keep the rain out of your eyes."  Squeak, squeak, swish, swish went the wipers as we followed Skip and his trailer of brightly colored kayaks down the highway.

"I'm just going to close my eyes and imagine I'm sitting by a fireplace holding a glass of wine," Bob said.  I threw a Look at her, but even I was starting to wonder if maybe this was not a great idea after all. 

"How far away is this place?" we wondered, as the miles blurred by; and the rain kept coming.  We had thought it was a mile or two up the road, but--maybe because of the rain, and because of Bob the Builder's unrelenting teasing--it seemed like we were traveling to another state.

Finally, we pulled over and bounced down a rutted road.  Skip backed his trailer up against the shore and started unloading kayaks.  A tiny sliver of blue sky appeared, but the clouds kept drizzling, and we pulled our hoods and hats down over our faces.  Skip pointed us to the life jackets, but reassured the hydrophobes among us that the river would rarely be more than a few feet deep.  He pulled a blue tandem kayak off the trailer and dragged it to the water's edge.

"This one's ours, J.Cool," I said.  The others were all taking singles, but J.Cool has back issues, and I had volunteered to be her chief paddler. We climbed in, and Skip pushed us off the shore.  We paddled out into the middle of the gentle current and waited for the singles kayaks to join us.  Spike found a rhythm easily, and quickly turned out into the current; BrokeGirl wasn't very far behind.

But Queen and Bob the Builder, OMG.  They spent some time talking over paddling strategy with Skip, and then he pushed them away from the beach.  Bob headed straight into the weeds on the opposite bank; and Queen paddled in circles.  Bob freed herself from the river flora, turned herself around, and paddled back across to the other bank; and Queen paddled in circles.

J. Cool and I drifted and watched the unfolding drama of Urban Girls v. Pigeon River, periodically calling out to them supportively.  And by "calling out to them supportively," I mean "laughing hysterically."

"Shut the eff up!" Queen yelled, somehow switching from clockwise circles to counter-clockwise circles.

Eventually, the comedy portion of the kayaking expedition ended, and our group meandered down the Pigeon River.  The sky drizzled, stopped, and drizzled some more; the sun made occasional promises, but failed to deliver.  We disturbed a great blue heron, who lifted up from the shallows and spread his blue-gray wings against the gray-blue sky.  A hundred yards further down, we startled his mate, who also flapped languidly away.  A pair of wood ducks floated in the weeds, barely glancing over as we paddled by.

"This is my new favorite sport!" Bob the Builder allowed, and I maturely resisted saying, "I told you so!"  

Until now.

After an hour or so of paddling, drifting, and floating downstream, we headed back upstream to our beachhead, where Skip was waiting to pull us ashore.  I think he was a little surprised that we had stayed out as long as we did in the not-so-accommodating weather; or maybe he expected one or more of us to die a watery death and not return at all.  

"Way to go, ladies!" he called out cheerfully as we approached the beach where he waited in the shallows in his shorts and Keens.  "I'm so proud of you!  Next trip you get half off!"  He clearly enjoyed putting people on the river.

"I'll bet he's a retired bond trader who left the big city and opened up the little kayak shop that he had always dreamed of," profiled BrokeGirl.  Sure enough, when we asked him, he said he had retired from Goldman Sachs and moved from New York a few years earlier.

I love my peeps, and I could not be more grateful for their friendship and the opportunity to hang with them, away from the chaos and responsibility of real life.  But as it often happens, I was also grateful to come home to my little family, to eat grill-marked hotdogs with them, and to listen to my delicate flower of a little daughter belting out Bon Jovi's Shot Through the Heart in the shower.

NOTE:  I borrowed the heron photo from NJ Bird Photos which has hundreds of really fabulous photographs.

Happiness Is...

..sleeping until you wake up naturally, with no alarm clock.



...eating something sweet for breakfast.



...hiking on the Kal-Haven trail


...taking photos of bright blooms and butterflies on the Kal-Haven trail.


...a covered bridge.


...waving to a kayaker on the Black River.




...when the Black River kayaker interrupts his paddling rhythm in order to wave back.


...sharing a giant bag of pink and blue cotton candy.


...having dessert first.  At this place.

...reading a book on the beach.

...a perfect frisbee throw.


...grilling the perfect burger.  And then eating it.


...a whole day of no kid-bickering.  Not that I would know.  I'm just sayin'.

South Haven, Reprised

Three-fifths of the Peevies returned to South Haven last week, accompanied by our friends the Dr. and Mr. Paradigm Shift and their two kids, SamWise and E-Dude.

We staked out our beach claim, and headed out into the warm-for-Lake-Michigan water.  While we were far out from the beach, on the sand bar past the over-our-head water, we noticed a blond-headed kid swimming toward us.  As he got closer, I thought to myself, "Hey, that kid looks a lot like Type A, A. Peevie's good friend from school."  But that would have been ridiculously unlikely, so I turned away. 

He kept coming, invading our swim-space, but before I could get annoyed, I realized that it was, indeed, Type A, who lives a mile or two away from us in the city, but who somehow found us 130 miles away, in the middle of Lake Michigan, without pre-arrangement.  I would like to know, if any of my readers have the statistical savvy and inclination to do the calculation:  What are the odds?

The kids found a huge log, which they spent hours moving around the water.  They used it as a flotation device, as a boat, as a king-of-the-hill prop.  We could not have purchased a better beach toy.  While they logged time lugging the log, the grownups sat on beach chairs, getting skin cancer, drinking carbonated beverages, reading Brave New World (Dr. PS) and The Second Civil War (me), and chatting about how perfect our lives were at that moment.

We played 500 off the deck with a soccer ball.  We watched shows like People Getting Their Arms Bitten Off By Sharks and Jobs That Make Normal People Throw Up. Plus--bonus!--I got to watch my boyfriend Vincent in the season seven finale and season eight opener of Law and Order: CI.  Sigh.

I miss you, South Haven.  See you again in a couple of weeks, I hope.

No Stories, Just Pictures

My muse has departed.  I have stories flitting around in the back of my head, but my words are failing me.

More on this later, but for now, I just feel like posting a few photos of Paradise.

Sand boy, AKA A. Peevie

Cousin T-Bone, airborne, watched by C. Peevie.

A. Peevie, C. Peevie, and Cousin Ri-Ri over there in the right corner

A fierce predator, sculpted by J-Sell.

Happy Girl, M. Peevie, expressing her joie de vivre

Cousin T-Bone and C. Peevie

Old-fashioned fun.

Sleepy Hollow, 11A.  Highly recommended.

Sleepy Hollow

Arrived Sunday at 4:30.  Unpacked car, ate subs and pizza, and headed for the beach by 6 p.m.

Waves so big, thought we were in Ocean City, NJ.  Heard rumors of riptides; kept eagle eye on M. Peevie who apparently has no fear of waves or being carried out to sea.  Kept calling her to come closer to shore.  Agreed with SIL that both of us were strong enough swimmers to rescue her.  Agreed with BIL that neither of us felt like going for a swim at the moment.

A. Peevie's anxiety kicked into gear, and he hollered at M. Peevie over the breaking waves and stiff breeze to come in closer.  "You're going to drown!" he screamed helpfully, and looked over at me with a worried expression on his face.  I walked down to the wet sand and waved her in. 

"M. Peevie," I instructed, "You must stay near the boys.  Don't go out any farther than they go out."  The boys were fairly safety-conscious, having learned a new word (riptide) in the last hour.

"But mom," M. Peevie said, "It's not even deep!  It's barely up to my waist!"

"M. Peevie," I said sternly, "Either come in out of the water, or stay near the boys.  Your choice."  Fine, she harrumphed, and waded back out into the crashing surf.

Now it's Wednesday, and I fully admit:  I could get used to this: hanging out at the pool, hanging out at the beach, playing tennis, taking naps, drinking adult beverages, and reading.  Oh, and I got to watch several epis from a L&O:CI marathon featuring my boyfriend.  Now that he's on cable, I don't get to see him as often as I used to.

Not the Call You Want to Get

I just got a call from my friend Mrs. D'Onofrio in Door County. It was not the call you want to receive when you have sent your kid off with a sleeping bag and a pat on the back and your last words to him were, "Please come back all in one piece!"

"We're taking C. Peevie to the ER," Mrs. D'Onofrio said. "He hurt his leg, and we're taking him for an X-ray just to be safe." There was lots of commotion and talking in the background.

"Really? Do you really think he needs to go to the ER?" I asked, thinking someone was possibly over-reacting.

Mrs. D turned away from the phone and asked someone in the background, "Does he really need to go to the ER?" I heard the answer, and then Mrs. D repeated it for me: "Yes. We need to get an X-ray." Keep me posted, I told her.

Next, I heard from the nurses in the ER at Door County Memorial Hospital, calling to confirm my permission to treat C. Peevie, and to make sure he wasn't allergic to whatever it is that gives hospitals their hospitally smell. Is he in a lot of pain?" I asked. He was deep breathing to control his pain, they said, and they'd give him some good meds soon. I did some deep breathing of my own.

Next I heard from the Nurse on the Case. "What medicines is he taking, Mrs. Peevie?" Nurse On the Case asked.

"None," I replied.

"C. Peevie said he takes allergy meds," Nurse OC said.

"Well, he's delirious," I said. "I have a prescription for him, but I haven't even filled it yet." We went back and forth a couple of times, and finally she understood that I was not withholding critical medical information.

Then I got a call from C. Peevie himself. "Mom," he said with barely any air behind his scratchy, deepening, adolescent voice, "Mom, I'm sorry."

I practically burst into tears. "Honey, what are you sorry for? You don't need to be sorry!"

"I'm...sorry," he said again, "I'm...just...sorry."

"C. Peevie, are you in a lot of pain?" I asked.

"No, mom," he barely croaked out--he, who never speaks at a volume below medium shout. "It doesn't hurt that much." I could tell he wanted it to be true.

At one point I got a call from the moms back at the shack, waiting for news. They filled me in on how the accident happened: the kids were using homemade ramps to play Tony Hawk and Trick Cycle Dudes. C. Peevie went up, came down, landed wrong, and didn't get up.

"It's not that he landed hard," Will'sMom said, "It's that he landed wrong. And then he didn't get up."

Finally, I got a call from the Doctor on the Case. "Well, it's a fracture," she said. His tibia was broken and the two pieces of bone were mis-aligned. They would need to line up the bone and put on a temporary cast.

"We'll give him some demerol before we do it," she said. Ah, demerol. Demerol would totally be the gorilla on my back if I were a medical professional with access to the good shit. I had some once, long ago, during a medical emergency, and to this day it is one of my fondest memories.

He'd need to see an orthopedic surgeon and have a permanent cast put on, the doc said. "What about school?" I asked. "It starts on Tuesday."

"No school until he sees the ortho and gets his cast," she said. I wonder how likely it is that we'll be able to get that done on a holiday weekend? I'm guessing, not so much likely--and this is before ObamaCare ruins health care for everyone. (You know I'm being sardonic, right?)

I kept wanting to cry all evening. I'm not really a worrier--I knew he was being well cared for, and that the moms and dads at Mrs. D'Onofrio's farm would ensure that he got everything he needed. But I wanted to be with him. I wanted to hold his hand when they straightened his leg. I wanted to push his hair off his face and kiss his cheek. I wanted to watch him experience his first narcotic high.

Finally, I got another call from Mrs. D'Onofrio. "It's a good thing it wasn't my son who broke his leg," she said, "because I would have killed him." Well, she can talk all blustery and stuff, but I know she's suffering because she feels responsible that C. Peevie got injured on her watch.

"Mrs. D.," I reassured her, "It was an accident. Accidents happen. He'll be fine."

"No," she said, "An accident is when you trip over a bump in the rug. This was not an accident, this was a broken leg waiting to happen because these kids insist on doing daredevil stunts like Evel Knievel." Problem is, we all knew they were doing it, and we didn't tell them to stop. It's what kids do!

It's what I did when I was a kid; and sometimes, someone gets hurt. If we forbade every activity that might involve someone getting hurt, we'd have to have our kids sitting naked on the floor in the middle of an empty room, instead of playing and exploring and riding and, occasionally, Evel Knieveling.

That's what I think, anyway. Of course you may not want to listen to me. I've had two kids with broken bones so far this year--although I'm just now realizing that I never blogged about M. Peevie's broken arm back in, what was it, May?

Bad mommy-blogger! Bad mommy-blogger!

But I digress. C. Peevie will be getting a ride home tomorrow, cutting his last pre-high school fling short by two days. I guess he'll be sleeping on the couch for the next six weeks, since I can't imagine him being able to climb up into his bunk bed with a broken leg.

And how the heck will he get to school with a heavy backpack and crutches, on the bus and the train and the walk across the Loop?

Is it too late for him to transfer?

Sleeping With the Enemy and Other Fun Vacation Tales

Dateline: South Haven. I went to sleep on my side, with my arm lying near the edge of the bed. About a half-hour after I dozed off, I felt a tiny but definitely discernible pinch on the inside of my arm, just above my wrist. I brushed my arm off and turned on the light.

There was a PINCHBUG, otherwise known as an EARWIG, strolling across the hardwood floor where I had flicked it after it BIT ME while I was SLEEPING in my BED! I am not even kidding. I am still so grossed out and horrified that I must go and pour myself a glass of wine right this minute.

...

OK, I'm back. When I spotted that bugger, I flung the covers off and leaped out of bed, straight toward the ceiling.

"THAT IS NOT RIGHT!" I almost hollered, waking up poor Mr. Peevie who groggily said, "Whu-wha?"

I grabbed Mr. Peevie's sandal and started whacking at the earwig, who was scuttling, earwig-like, across the floor. It took me three or four whaps before I was confident that he was not going to be creating any additional post-midnight insect drama.

This unsettling event was the low-light of my week-long beach-and-pool slice of vacation heaven last month.

Remember last year, when I wrote a poem called 80 Steps, about the long, arduous climb that faced us every time we left the beach?

Well, this year the steps were just as arduous. Maybe more arduous.

But it's totally worth it. One morning my SIL and I stood at the top of the steps, looking out over the lake. It was like glass: smooth, waveless, twinkling in the sun. It took my breath away.

The kids were already down on the beach, starting to build sand castles and chasing minnows in the shallow water. When we joined them, we relaxed on beach chairs, sipped beverages, and I started on one of the four books I tackled during my vacation reading frenzy.

"Mom!" our little cousin hollered, "When are the really big waves coming?!" He was ready for some wild wave action. As the day went on, the breeze started to pick up, and the lake started producing waves, which made R-Cuz and the rest of the kids happy.

Jump to the last day of vacation. We were back at the beach, and the lake waves were like Jersey-Shore-wannabe-waves, too rough to let the smaller kids go out too far by themselves. So we went out there with them, with the kids hanging on to inner tubes, letting the waves carry us effortlessly up and drop us down again. We laughed, we floated, we splashed, we bobbed. Life was perfect.

"Mommy," M. Peevie said, "This is the best last day in the history of last days."

Random Notes From My Vacation

1. Across Minnesota, giant, white windmills, each with three long arms, dot the landscape. They caused me to wonder: How much energy do they harness? Are they efficient? Are they privately owned, or state-owned? Can the energy be stored? What is the energy used for? Why aren't there more windmills harnessing free energy across the miles of empty land?

As you might have predicted, I did a little research on the subject. This article is informative, though obviously biased in favor of the benefits of wind energy production. This older article from USA Today reports that a teeny .5% of all electricity generated in the U.S. in 2005 came from windmills, but that percentage is expected to keep rising. The U.S. Department of Energy reported in 2008 that "wind power could provide up to 20% of the nation's total electricity needs by 2030."

2. The sky looks different in Minnesota and South Dakota than it does in Chicago. Bigger; bluer; taller. The clouds look different, too. Sometimes they were white mountain ranges; sometimes they were ominous tidal waves; and once they looked exactly like Wisconsin State Fair cheese curds.
3. A business opportunity for you entrepreneurial Green Room readers: There are two restaurants near the northeast entrance to Badlands National Park. One is the Wagon Wheel Bar, which I described here; and the other is the restaurant at Cedar Pass Lodge, just past the entrance. The next nearest restaurants are in Wall, South Dakota, a slow 22 mile drive away. This place can definitely use another restaurant. If you can stand the loneliness, start writing up your business plan. I'm available (for a fee) to help you plan the menu--based on my hours and hours of experience in the area.

4. As the child of two extreeeeemely conservative, Christian parents, I grew up believing what they told me: whereas the Bible must be interpreted literally whenever possible, and whereas the Bible says the earth was created in six days, and whereas yada yada, therefore, the earth is not more than 10,000 years old in spite of what science, archeology, and geology have to say about it. I confess that I still hang on to the inclination toward literalness in Biblical interpretation, and it has taken me a long time to let go of my young earth predilection.

However. Being in the Badlands for four days did more to influence my belief about the age of the earth than did 12 years of public school, six years of college and graduate school, and 48 years of exposure to news stories, public exhibits, museums, and other sources of information on the topic. The layers of fossilized Badlands rock, with their varying colors and textures, shouted out to me, "Look at us! We're really, really old! Older than your dad thinks we are!"

I still believe that it's possible that God created the earth in six literal, 24-hour days; I just don't think it's likely that he did. God can do anything, even create brand-new things that look old. Adam is a good example--if you happen to believe in the creation story of Adam and Eve, which I do.

Yes, it's possible that God created the Badlands--and other old-looking geological formations -- with the appearance of age and changes over time. It's possible -- but why would He?

I Fought the Law and the Law Won

We left town at 8 a.m. on a Monday morning on our recent trip to South Dakota. At 8:30 I got pulled over for speeding.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath when I saw the flashing lights behind me.

"PULL ONTO THE SIDE STREET," the black and white ordered. I obediently pulled over, and opened my window. The officer walked up and I mustered as much innocence as a sinner with a black heart can muster.

"Is there a problem, officer?" I asked sweetly.


"Yes, ma'am," the young officer said politely, "You were going 45 in a 30. May I see your license and proof of insurance, please?"

I handed over my license, newly renewed last month, thankthelittlebabyjesus, or I'd be paying for a driving-without-a-license ticket as well as a speeding ticket. But when I searched for the current insurance card, it was nowhere to be found. I had the last two cards, but the most recent one expired in May.

"Do you have current insurance on the vehicle?" Young Officer Friendly (YOF) asked.

"Yes, sir," I said truthfully, but I was sure I was going down not just for speeding, but for POI as well. POI--Proof of Insurance. That's how us bad'uns talk about our rap sheets.

"When was the last time you had a moving violation?" he asked.

"Oh, I can't remember," I said. "Years, I think." It turns out this was an inadvertent lie. Days later I remembered that I got a ticket in the mail a couple of months ago for an illegal right turn on red. I am a regular Public Enemy.

YOF went back to his vehicle to write my tickets and do whatever mysterious things police officers do when they leave you waiting and sweating it out in your car after they pull you over. He was probably playing Scramble on his laptop while he waited for my extensive rap sheet to print out.

Meanwhile the kids were all speculating about my lawlessness in the back seat. "Were you speeding, Mommy?"

"Are you going to jail?"

"How fast were you going?"

"Are we still going to be able to go on vacation?"

When he returned to my window, he handed me back my license, plus a speeding ticket.

"You're sure you have insurance on the vehicle?" he asked one more time. Yes, I was sure.

"I'm not going to write you a ticket for not having your card," he said, "but I have to write you up for speeding." He explained what I needed to do about the ticket--which, uh oh, did I actually pay it? Crap! I can't remember!--and he let me know that if he had written me up for POI I'd have to show up in court to get my license back, and the cost of the ticket would automatically triple, or something ridiculous like that. I promised him I'd pay it as soon as I got home. Oops.

Frankly, he was so polite, and so civil and friendly--he actually asked where we were headed on vacation, and we talked about the Badlands for a couple of minutes--that it was almost a pleasure doing business with him. Except for the fact that "doing business" meant paying a $75 speeding ticket.
So, I fought the law, and the law won.

But when Dr. Paradigm Shift got pulled over for speeding through the Badlands several days later, she fought the law, and she won! The officer who pulled Dr. PS over told her that she had got her on radar going 55 in a 35, and, she hyperbolized, "I've never seen anyone going that fast in the park!" I was kind of proud of Dr. PS for that, but she was not buying it AT ALL.

The officer said she was not going to write her a ticket after all, because she didn't have a "clear reading" or some such nonsense, and this, Dr. PS said, was "fishy."

"Either she got me, and she'd write me a ticket," she theorized, "or she didn't get me, and she's not giving me a ticket." And what, she just likes to pull random people over and tell them that she's never seen anyone driving so fast through the Badlands?

I don't know. All I'm saying is, Dr. PS has a history of speediness in the Badlands, and I think she should take her Get Out of Jail Free card and run.

Plus, I was praying the whole time that I wouldn't have to show POI. The last thing I need is to have to show up in court in Interior, South Dakota, population 67, just to get my license back.

Update, Plus South Dakota Tales

Mr. Peevie asked me to point you to the update at the bottom of this post.

And I thought I'd also take this opportunity to show you a few photos from my trip to South Dakota. Here are the five kids atop a smallish Badlands formation (l-r: A. Peevie, Samwise, C. Peevie, M. Peevie, and E-Dude):


And here is my beauteous angel, M. Peevie, totally owning the Badlands:


Here's how A. Peevie spent approximately 50 percent of his time in the car. I don't know if you can tell or not, but that's Manny the Manatee in his lap. It's probably the first time a manatee, stuffed or otherwise, has been within 1000 miles of the Badlands.


I wish I had a photo of the Wagon Wheel Bar, in Interior, South Dakota, population 67 according to the sign at the edge of "town." We went there for "dinner" on our first day in the Badlands. To get there, you drive into town on Highway 77, and turn right at the gas station/"mini-mart." You'll know you're headed in the right direction because the sign on the corner points toward the "Business District." Pass the town jail (photo credit: Murrax on Wikipedia), which Dr. Paradigm Shift insists is not currently used as such because "the ACLU would be all over it," but which I think is totally where they throw the obnoxious drunk guy on Saturday night.

Anyway, as we walked into the Wagon Wheel, our feet stuck to the tacky floor and the smell of cigarette smoke immediately saturated our hair and clothing. But we were starving, and the bartender/waitress was smiling and helpful, so we ordered burgers and chicken fingers and home-made pizza, and beer for the grown-ups, and sat down at two small, slightly sticky tables.

The kids asked for money for the jukebox and started playing Johnny Cash songs, plus a little U2, Bon Jovi, and Toby Keith. There were no Killers songs on the playlist, unfortunately, or I'm sure we would have heard Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf, which is absurdly inappropriate for an 8-year-old to sing along with, or perhaps Human.

Anyway, while we ate, a cowboy walked into the bar, followed by his large dog. The dog walked up to us, smelled us, and then strolled over to his water dish and got a drink. Apparently, he's a regular.

Then, a bunch of Native American pool players stopped by the bar for their evening sport. They were wearing blue jeans, cowboy boots, and flannel shirts with the sleeves cut off. They sat around the table talking and laughing and sipping chardonnay from long-stem wine glasses. No lie. It seemed a bit incongruous, but maybe that's just me.

Where the Buffalo Roam

I'm back! Didja miss me? What's that, you say? You'd like to hear about our fast and furious trip to South Dakota and back? Well, you don't have to ask twice!

Here's the short version: Drive, drive, drive. Eat. Drive, drive drive. Arrive in beautiful, mostly deserted, downtown Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Eat. Swim. Sleep.

Eat. Swim. Drive, drive, drive. Eat buffalo jerky. Drive, drive, drive. Arrive in starkly beautiful Badlands, South Dakota. Have heart attack as kids walk too near the edge of sharp thousand-foot drop-offs. Eat at the rustic (to put it nicely) Wagon Wheel Bar in Interior, South Dakota, population 67. Hike the Badlands. Hike. Fall. Cry. Hike. Fall. Cry. Repeat. Sleep.

Biscuits and gravy at Cedar Pass Lodge. Drive, drive, drive. Watch buffalo making their home on the range. Try to get close to prairie dogs. Read sign saying, "Beware of prairie dog plague." Back slowly away from prairie dogs.

Drive, drive, drive. Shop for trinkets at the famous Wall Drug, the most famous gift shop in the West. Drive, drive, drive. Visit Mount Rushmore. Visit Mount Rushmore gift shop. Play on mountainside next to Mount Rushmore. Eat at DQ, because there's nothing like driving for 20 hours to eat at the same damn place you can eat at in Chicago. Drive. Visit Crazy Horse mountain. Drive, drive, drive. Climb the Badlands. Fall. Cry. Climb some more. Watch stunning lightning storm over the Badlands from motel balcony. Sleep.

Biscuits and gravy at Cedar Pass Lodge. Climb, fall, cry, repeat. Fossil talk with Ranger Joe. Climb, fall, cry, repeat. Lunch in Wall. More climbing the Badlands. Prairie walk with Ranger Joe. Visit Badlands gift shop. Climb, fall, cry, repeat. Watch Badlands evening slide presentation. Sleep.

Drive, drive, drive, drive, drive, drive. Sleep in own bed. Aaaahhhh.

Trip stats:

Total miles driven: 2,050.6
Total cost: approximately $2,000 (both families, for gas, food, lodging and sundries)
Total hours of driving: 35-40, including side trips
Total trip days: 5
Total pictures taken (E. Peevie only): 101
Total times pulled over for speeding: 2
Total number of speeding tickets: 1
Total number of times someone asked "Are we there yet?": 8,761

I'll leave you with this famous quote from M. Peevie: "How come South Dakota has all the cool stuff?"

More later. Because there is much to tell, of course.

NOTE: I don't know how to write on my photos, or put captions below them, so I'll just tell you here: in the mountain photo, the person on the top is C. Peevie, and the climber in the white shirt is A. Peevie.

We're Off!

Today: packing for me plus three; picking up car snacks; gassing up the ol' Conestoga.

Tomorrow: Hittin' the road, headed for the Badlands, South Dakota.

First, we'll stop by beautiful downtown Wheaton, to pick up my therapist friend, Dr. Paradigm Shift, and her two above-average boys. (I don't like to travel far from home without bringing my personal therapist along. You never know when you're going to need a little psychoanalysis.)

Then, it's off on Adventure Highway, heading north and west to see sights for sore urban eyes: hills, mountains, trees, astonishing land formations, buffalo, prairie dogs. The plan is to travel as far as we can the first day, and then find ourselves a family friendly hotel, hopefully one with a pool. I picture us driving into a bucolic town along the highway, finding a Howard Johnson's, getting a couple of rooms, and ordering some fried clams as a late-night snack.

If worse comes to worst (and what a great expression that is!), we'll put our Garmin to work to find us a hotel. Only we don't have a Garmin, we have something better: we have Mr. Peevie on speed dial. He'll work his Internet Magicks and find us an acceptable crib for the night.

I'll keep you posted, with updates from The Road. I'm sure you can't wait.

E. Peevie, out.