the love of summer

Almost a whole season has past during my writing hiatus.  I let the pollen-filled, balmy air of spring transition to the sweltering days of summer.  Sitting down to write again, I realize I have written this before; that summer is my most favorite season.  I love all four seasons for different reasons.  Fall for its crisp air and changing leaves that present the most beautiful portraits of natural beauty.  Winter for its quietness when a cold day forces people to hibernate away in the warmth of their homes, gazing out windows that frame scenes of constant rain or snow.  Spring for the dewey promise of new beginnings, flowers blooming and birds once again singing out the morning window.  But summer to me is different.  Maybe its the warmth that hits the skin and just feels more penetrating.  It's the season where water is cherished and celebrated.  Whether the beach, the river, or the lake, these bodies of water produce relieving cool breezes and an escape from the penetrating sun.  Summer seems to be a time when it's okay to be lazy, when the serious things become not all that serious and the long days seem to fade into each other with each sunset.  

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

Thunderstorms are a constant during a Southern summer.  I've come to appreciate how they ominously form on some of the hottest of days as if the skies open up to provide welcome relief from the heat.  This first summer in our house saw both of our birthdays, our third anniversary and hosted an ongoing string of visitors.  It turned out to be exactly how I would have imagined our house during summertime to be.  River shoes finding their seasonal permanent space on the deck, a barbecue in constant use, the hum of the air conditioner I am grateful for during these months, and the long summertime hours that beckon more fun and less sleep.

I drifted into a summer-nap under the hot shade of July, serenaded by a cicadae lullaby, to drowsy-warm dreams of distant thunder.  ~Terri Guillemets

In some places this summer, I realize it has been uncomfortably, sometimes unreasonably hot.  Summer, like it's counterpart winter, often tests us with extremes.  Somehow, as the long days shrink, shadows getting shorter and the night sky appearing earlier, we forget all about it.  In the shortest days of winter I find myself longing to feel that penetrating heat of summer.  In less than two weeks, August will give way to September and trickle into the beginning of fall.  I know I'll be ready for it, I always am.  Each year I find I am ready for those long days to become just a bit shorter because that means football and Halloween, the nearing of Thanksgiving which means time with my family.  As we trek through the next three seasons I'll keep thinking of what's ahead, of the next time Summer Solstice brings the longest day of the year and a new summer season.

What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness. ~John Steinbeck

the place i now call home

The last time I sat down to write, I was lamenting about the house we had just lost.  I am elated to report that I am now writing from my old desk but in a new room in our new house.  The whole process seems almost like a whirlwind blur.  We saw about 20 or so homes, changed realtors, and changed mortgage lenders but did not end up changing the location of where we wanted to live.  Irony will have it that we ended up in a home one address, yep, that's one address away from the house that I wrote about in my last post.

Being a homeowner is definitely uncharted waters for us.  After signing a very large and daunting stack of papers with a lawyer, the keys were handed to us and I had the feeling of did that just happen?  Our first course of action was to go over to the new abode and walk through every room, imagining just what it will be like to live in such a great space.  We are happy and thankful for the way that everything worked out and do believe we are in the right house for us.

As I explained in the last post, one of the best features of the place we now live is the river access the community has.  It is almost as if I am swept away to another place walking along the path that hugs the shoreline of the Saluda.  As corny as it may sound, the area reminds me of how much beauty different parts of our country hold.  I've always been drawn to water, and something about this area provides a sense of tranquility and beauty.  The space is shared of course with the areas natural inhabitants.  In the two weeks since moving we've encountered many Canadian geese,  Nutreas (if you haven't had the pleasure of seeing one, look it up), fox, deer, snakes and I'm sure there will be others that will make an appearance at one time or another.

Of course our dog has a whole new attitude towards us that encompasses a sense of unending gratitude.  I swear he is sure that this move was made for his benefit.  He has wasted no time darting through trees, jumping in the river, exploring the banks as well as scouting every inch of our backyard.  I'm happy that he has more room now to be a dog, I'm sure at some point he'll realize this isn't just for him... then again, maybe not.  There will be more stories to come, for now signing off happily from my old desk in my new home.

Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it  is life's undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room.-Harriet Beecher Stowe 

the house hunt

Last Saturday, we decided to withdraw the offer we made on our very first home purchase.  Since starting the house-hunting process about five months ago, I've heeded to words of warning from friends and family.  This comes at no surprise as we all know the trials and tribulations the housing market has faced in the midst of the economic turmoil our country is facing.  It is undoubtedly a very interesting time to be hunting for a home with prices very competitive, sellers willing to make a deal and interest rates that are almost unbelievable.  We have been patiently waiting for our time to buy, being denied approval for a mortgage over the last two years due to not enough work history.  We finally got approved, contacted a realtor and headed into the hunt with fervor and excitement.

We saw about a dozen homes with only a few offering potential to us as a possibility.  There were others we toured where we instantly knew this is "not the one".  One such house had a creepy dark basement that I was sure the boogy-man frequented... that was a no.  Another was a charming older home that seemed promising if you were willing to gut-renovate almost the entire dwelling, a massive undertaking we are not willing to entertain...no.  Yet another was quaint and nice but I feared for my safety walking a few blocks away from the house, being active outdoors and runners...no.  Then we found this house:

  The appealing exterior was not even what made us love it the most.  The backyard led down a hill to a path situated on the Saluda River.  As the river has been a point of interest for us in living here (we even bought a camo-colored kayak last year), this seemed perfect.

So we decided to put in an offer.  We engaged in the  back-and-forth dance of coming to an agreement and after about a week, this was achieved.  On to the inspection.  Our inspector Kip was nothing short of wonderful.  He spent 2 1/2 hours scouring the 2200 square foot house and unfortunately found more than one problem...  we were sure this was the end of the road for the house.  Instead, the sellers were more than reasonable and agreed to fix everything.  Great!

Onward and upward, we were one step closer to being home owners.  Throughout the course of the process I went through the emotions I think most people typically have when purchasing a home.  Is this the right one? Are we spending too much? Should we have focused on other areas? The questioning was tempered by the remembered advice I received from many people: it's okay to be nervous, it's a BIG purchase.  

What happened next, we never imagined.  Following the inspection, the next step was the appraisal.  To our surprise, and I'm sure to the seller's dismay, the house appraised a whole 5% lower than the price we agreed on.  I now have even more of an understanding, or perhaps bewilderment, over how upside down the housing market has been turned.  I felt for the sellers who bought the house at a price 15% higher than what we agreed to buy it at.  Emotions aside, there was no question the appraisal was a deal-breaker.  When the sellers would not further reduce the price of the house, we pulled the offer and walked away.

You would think I would feel pretty sad about coming so close and then losing it all.  In fact, I feel very much at peace with the outcome.  I'm glad that there are processes in place so that buyers are not blindly forking over more money than a house is worth.  It is unfortunate that the housing market has gone through a dark time and that so many people are underwater.  I do think it seems there are lessons learned and changes being made to prevent a repeat of the atrocity.

For us, it's back to the hunt.  Embarking on countless drive-bys, shamelessly peering in windows, dissecting the layout of a house, contemplating where we want to come home to every day.  It's a thrilling and exasperating process all at once.  I'll certainly be happy when it's over.  For now, I'll roll up my sleeves, try my best to remain unemotional (not my strong-suit), and hunt for the place we can call home, sweet home.

thanksgiving, goulash style

It was 4:00PM when the sky darkened from the faded grey overcast the day produced.  It didn't matter that there was no sunset, or sun at all throughout the day for that matter.  As dusk turned to night the lights that blanketed the city and buildings illuminated creating a stunningly beautiful picture.  On this particular night we took a boat ride down the river Danube which divides Buda and Pest, the two areas that make up the city Budapest, Hungary.  The castle that sits atop the Buda hillside was brilliant in it's old world glory while the newer Parliament building on the Pest side seemed to be challenging its beauty with its impressive architecture emphasized by all the lights.

The boat ride was just one highlight of our Thanksgiving week adventure.  My family and I spent our time traversing the city that is still somewhat emerging from the Communist era oppression it endured.  My youngest sister, who is studying abroad in Budapest, was an excellent tour guide, leading us through the public transport system, providing insight into the history of the city and its sights and even speaking Hungarian, a feat I greatly admire.

I found the city to be charming in an undiscovered way.  Although there are scatterings of boxy, nondescript buildings and some of the buildings are covered in dirt, exemplifying remnants of communist era, there still can be found wonderful architecture and a sense that there has been tremendous effort put forth trying to rebuild and restore a city that lost 80% of its buildings in the Second World War.  In certain ways there is a sad aura that is felt about the city that has endured so much in its history.  However, I found there is also a determination to present itself as a city that is no longer under a communist hold and that does not shy away from it's plagued history which is evident in the many statues and tributes scattered throughout the city.

We were fortunate to be there just before Christmastime.  In addition to the lights that adorn the buildings to illuminate them each night, there were even more lights strung above the streets in snowflake and icicle patterns. There was also a large holiday market with wooden booths set up for vendors selling everything from Hungarian made leather products, to ornaments, to tasty food offerings such as giant pretzels, sausages, pastries and endless cauldrons of hot mulled wine.

On that note, what about the food? I had heard a preconceived notion before traveling to Hungary that the food left much to be desired.  In fact, we found the food was delicious, albeit very meat-centric, but filling and just the type of thing we craved in the cold weather.  I thought that goulash was supposed to be a thick, gravy-type meat dish; instead, it is more traditionally a broth based meat soup.  Other traditional specialties include stuffed peppers and stuffed cabbage, all delightfully seasoned with another Hungarian specialty: paprika.

I'm thankful that I was able to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in such a unique and wonderful city with my family who I cherish so deeply.  Although our Thanksgiving day meal did not have any turkey, stuffing, cranberries or even mashed potatoes, and there was no pumpkin or pecan pie, we still all sat around one table together, enjoying each others company and all thankful for the opportunity to see another culture half a world away.

one year is never enough

I am often asked how things are going, how it is living in a "new place" (although now that it's been two years, maybe it's not so new...)  I always try to answer in earnest, that really the last five years have been quite the adventure going from CA to NYC to SC.  I wrote the following last spring thinking I might submit it somewhere but never posted it on the blog.  Here it is now, in summary, my feelings on all the shifting the last five years have brought.

It will only be a year and then I will move back. Turning the statement over in my head, I find myself contemplating the assured tone I once had when saying those words.  Out my window, the traffic rolls by and the sky is swept with grey.  It’s actually a welcomed coolness that permeates the air considering the sweltering heat that will arrive in a month or two and stay far longer than anyone wants.  It’s nice to pause and just think once in a while, but my thoughts almost always come back to how I got here.  I mean that literally, how did I come to live in this Southern city?  I can’t help but marvel at the path that has gotten me to this point; not one, but almost five years have passed by since I left “home” for big city life, which in turn led me back to a smaller town.   

It started when I was twenty-two.  I wanted badly to get out of the “normal” way of life that I knew and was comfortable with.  In a way, I think I was a little scared of being trapped in the same place forever.  I suppose that’s why I took such a drastic leap to change everything about the way I was living.  I had just graduated from UC Santa Barbara, the coastal university in California that I attended after growing up and going to High School in Newport Beach, another southern California beach town.  I considered myself a bona fide beach girl spending summers lounging in the sand on the shore with the constant smell of salt water lingering in my sandy brown hair and a year-round sun kissed glow that I always took for granted.  I had loved the role I assumed, but at twenty-two, things changed.  I wanted to go to a city, live a bigger and faster life with the world at my fingertips.  Nothing fit that description better than New York City.  So I packed my bags and escaped to the Big Apple.

It was only supposed to be for a year.  I really didn’t intend for the getaway to be permanent.  After all, my whole family lives in California; to travel back for a visit is neither easy or inexpensive.  What I didn’t realize is that moving to a new place takes much longer than a year to adjust.  I had to find a job, a place to live, and figure my way around such a massive metropolitan city.  It was an exciting, fun, terrifying adventure and after a year there was no chance I was ready to return to California and my beach girl ways.  One year turned into three during which time I met my now husband.  It was my mother’s fear when I first announced I would be relocating across country.  “You are going to meet someone and never come back,” she would say to me almost with a matter-of-fact tone.  I would roll my eyes or try to reassure her that she was just overreacting.  I now realize two things: that I was insensitive and naïve, and that she was right.  I met an amazing man and we got married after two and a half years together.

As much as I love New York City, I began to resent parts of living there.  The cold winters seemed to stretch longer each year.  The pace of the city was grueling at times where it seemed if you stopped and yelled out in the middle of the street, there might not be anyone that would notice.  These anonymities were what I loved when I first moved there; they were what my twenty-two year old self was craving, but as a few years trickled by it seemed I was ready to search for something else.  It was never supposed to be a permanent move and maybe that thought in the back of my mind prompted me to stir up morose feelings.  Just as I began to manifest these sentiments, an opportunity came up for us to purchase a franchise and move.  This was a perfect solution to feeling the New York itch.  This was a chance out.  There was just one catch, we would be moving to South Carolina.

I don’t mean to make moving to South Carolina sound like a bad thing; it’s a beautiful place filled with delicious food, robust traditions and a leisurely pace, but I had never been there and it was all unfamiliar to me. Frankly, I never thought I would be moving to the South.  The West coast and East coast are very different animals, especially the Northeast.  I was confused that I felt apprehension over the move, hadn’t I just picked up and moved to the very foreign New York City only three years earlier?  My husband and I had spent hours upon hours dreaming up all the places in the world we could live and I always presented myself as up for the adventure.  For some reason, this felt different.  Maybe it was because of that statement I convinced myself of when I was twenty-two.  It will only be a year and then I’ll move back.  Now I was signing up for a much more permanent experience living on the east coast.

The day we left New York, I cried as we drove out of the city.  I hadn’t anticipated such fierce emotion to escape me, but tears rolled down my cheeks and I spent the first twenty minutes of the drive mourning the fact that my adventure in New York was over.  Once I had grieved, I felt a weight lifted and was ready for this next journey in life to begin.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy and freeing as I had thought and throughout the first few months of living in our new home I often felt frustrated and unsure of what my place was in this new life. 

It has now been a year and a half since moving to Columbia, South Carolina.  I will be the first to admit, not all the adjustments have been easy.  After a lot of self-reflection I realized my focus needed to shift from looking for the escape, or for what’s next, or to always be thinking it will only be a year.  When I do that, I am missing out on some of the now, on the world happening and being great and beautiful.  Now that my eyes are open and my attitude is shifting, I am coming to love and appreciate this part of the country: the low country attitude, the graciousness and kindness of people that live here, the amazing culinary offerings and the beautiful and changing scenery.

I’m not sure where we will move next or when that will be.  Sometimes I still feel unsettled, I think about my family cross-country and wish I lived closer.  I marvel that my path in life has taken me to this southern town.  Instead of waiting for the next opportunity to uproot and move again, I want to live here and embrace my life until the time comes to make the next shift, knowing that only a year is never enough.

mud run

Last weekend I paid $37 to be scratched and bruised by tree stumps and covered from head to toe with mud.  Perhaps not one of the wisest uses of funds for me personally, but at least it went to a great cause.  The reason for the insanity was to participate in the US Marine Corp bi-annual mud run.

I wasn't alone in this crazy endeavor.  I was joined by 9,600 other daring people who also participated in the race which consisted of 5.2 miles and 36 obstacles.  You participate in this particular race in teams of four.  It's very much a team activity where you cannot complete the obstacles without your whole team.

Course Map

Our team's start time was 12:23PM Saturday afternoon.  It was a flawless day boasting a beautiful blue sky with scattered puffy clouds.  The sun was shining making it a comfortably warm temperature.  The conditions were perfect.  As we waited in line for our start I felt nervous, anxious at what was ahead and in store for me on the course, and was dreading my inevitable meeting with mud.  The announcer signaled our team's go-ahead and we began with a slow jog so as not to tire ourselves too quickly.

I approached the first obstacle with wide-eyed fear.  There were eight logs lined up in a row atop a murky mud hole.  It was more like mud water than thick and sticky mud.  The task was to duck under each log.  The catch was the only way to get under was crouching down low on all fours and for two or three of the logs you actually had to submerge your head under the muddy water.  My teammates were already halfway through the obstacle when I took a deep breath, closed my eyes tight and prayed I would come up on the other side without swallowing any of the gross liquid.  I'm not sure what is more challenging... running 5.2 miles, completing the difficult obstacles or running and completing the obstacles while weighted down with mud that clings to clothes, hair, skin and shoes...

Click here to see list and description of obstacles

Our team lumbered on through the challenges which included more logs that we had to boost each other over, a 15 foot wall we had boost and pull each other over, rope swings, mud trenches, rope ladders to climb 15 feet up and then down the other side, a creek we waded through, and my very least favorite obstacle the ultimate mud pit.  The pit was one of the obstacles near the end of the race.  I would be remiss if I said this was just a 20 yard mud pool we all had to wade or "swim" across.  This mud was thick, clumpy, had a stench I tried to ignore and was downright gross! At 5'8'' tall, the mud came up to my neck.  There was even one section where my feet unsuccessfully searched for the bottom and I was forced to hurl myself forward just to make progress through the obstacle.  We all emerged out the other side looking like swamp monsters from a comic book.  It took me days to clean the viscous stuff from my ears and fingernails.

Our team tromped across the finish line an hour and half after starting the race.  I was asked if I would participate in the mud run again, as they host the event twice a year in the Columbia area.  I paused, contemplated the question while running through the obstacles in my head, my thoughtful and careful response was "I'm not really sure... I don't think so."  In truth I'll probably sign up again in the future.  It's one of those quite masochistic endeavors that you only partially enjoy while doing, is painful to complete but rewarding in the memories and stories that emerge from partaking in the event.

If nothing else, the money raised is used to support the men and women Marines and their families in the Columbia area who have been wounded or killed while on active duty. The money also goes towards several active scholarships in the Columbia area that were named after Marines who were killed.  That is most definitely a cause I am happy to get muddy again and again for.

learning to swim

I don't remember learning how to swim.  I do remember being about six years old and being plucked out of the group of fellow 5 and 6 year olds at our daily practice.  Coach Ted wanted me to demonstrate one lap of butterfly.  Me??? I don't remember doing that lap in the pool, or what the other kids' reactions were.  But I do remember being very proud of being asked to demonstrate.  Obviously I had teachers and coaches that helped me learn the butterfly stroke.  I'm sure hours were spent while I flailed and splashed through the water in efforts to learn how to "legally" swim down the length of a pool.

Swimming is a skill I think most parents want their kids to learn at a young age if for no other reason than to be safe when near any body of water.  However, competitive swimming is a whole other ball game.  Freestyle, Backstroke, Breaststroke and the often dreaded Butterfly are the four technical strokes in swimming.  You learn them as if you would a pirouette in ballet, a back handspring in gymnastics or how to swing a bat and make contact with the ball in baseball.  Yet when you swim, your body is floating through the body of water, gravity is defied and all you hear when your head is submerged is the swishing of water past you.  In learning the strokes, you must manipulate the water around you, using the force to propel you down the pool, moving your arms and legs, which feel much lighter under the water, with deliberate strength and force.

I started teaching swim lessons several weeks ago to beginner swimmers.  I suit up twice a week, get in the three foot deep pool with my swim students and try to teach them the basic swim strokes.  Most of the kids I teach are about 5-7 years old.  They are eager, full of energy and once they are used to the water and submerging underneath it, generally fearless on all counts.  Their enthusiasm for learning aside, teaching swimming is one of the more challenging things I've tried to do.  I suppose like any other skill or sport it takes repetition, practice and instruction.  Just yesterday, I was explaining breaststroke to the two five year old girls that were in my lesson.

First, I tried to explain how to move your feet,

"Who knows what a frogs feet looks like?" I ask and they raise their hands excitedly.  "Your feet go up at the same time, out to the side and then swooosh together in a glide."  I demonstrate myself in the three foot pool.  "Did you see what I did?"

"Yeah," one of them replies.  "But your feet sank!?"

I blink a few times, smile and then tell them their feet should not sink.  I'm too big for this three foot pool... 

Okay, now it's time to try, I tell them.  Off they go.  Feet kick wildly, every third to fifth time the up, out, together motion is achieved.  They cling to the kickboards willing the foam pieces to propel them forward. Maybe it will be better when we add the arms...  

"You scoop your arms like you're grabbing your favorite treat, take a bite and then push it out to share with your friends!" I try valiantly to explain in a way they understand.  

They copy my motions and I think yes, they get it.  Okay, time to try it altogether.  Off they go again this time flailing, scooping, arms by their side, pushing the water trying to do anything they can not to sink to the bottom.  The feet look pretty good, but the hands are a disaster, at one point I pull each of them up and say "Don't forget to breathe!"  Not sure how far those little lungs can hold the air with all that wiggling about underwater.

Our time together is only thirty minutes, just long enough to cover three of the strokes and I'm thankful we didn't have to try butterfly yet.  We play a quick game of sharks and minnow and I chase them down the pool pretending they are too fast for me to catch.

The lesson is over, they are smiling.  Thats good at least. I'm optimistic that they'll eventually get the breaststroke, that I'm at least teaching them something...  I don't remember how I learned to swim, but I'd like to think I was just as fearless, willing to try (between a few tantrums I'm sure...), and at least liked it somewhat.  Maybe these kids will teach swimming 20 + years down the road, maybe not.  They probably wont remember how they learned to swim.  In the meantime, I'll try to teach them to swim in the three foot pool and we'll all try not to sink together.