Like most people, I've had plenty of roommates, and after I left home I moved around quite a bit. I've lived in studios, one-, two- and three-bedroom apartments, and houses big and small. I've had private baths, I've shared baths, and I've always shared a kitchen.
In 2006 I moved in with friends who had recently had a baby, and I agreed to rent the basement apartment from them as I also worked as their nanny. There were very few windows in the space, which, as an artist, was a problem, but I had room for my furniture, it was safe and clean, and I loved my commute (which was 13 stairs). I shared the kitchen, kept my food items in one drawer in the fridge, used part of one low cabinet for dry food storage, and kept some boxes and incidentals in the unfinished side of the basement. I didn't have a car at the time so there was no issue of who was in the driveway, or where to park on the street. The neighborhood was quiet and modest and family-oriented, just minutes from a bustling University downtown area.
The folks I shared the house with were both very strong personalities, and occasionally I would hear them arguing heatedly - They were a truly loving couple, so I trusted that they would make nice in the end and they always did. They apologized profusely to me about the heated, rather loud nature of their arguments, but as long as they didn't go to bed angry, I wasn't bothered.
Since I was an artist, they asked me to help them spruce up the house, and I painted a few areas for them, including the kitchen, hallway and living room. We did our own cooking, and the woman of the household was always trying to get me to join in at family meals, but she cooked with more garlic than my digestive system could manage, so I had to turn down the offer.
Since I was the nanny for their son, he would occasionally visit and play in my living space, which I didn't mind at all. We would often do creative activities in my apartment as part of our daily routine.
Since they had to walk on my ceiling, it was a good thing they didn't do Godzilla imitations when taking a midnight trip to the bathroom - even when they had pretty romping social gatherings above me, I was still able to sleep (with a few earplugs kept handy just in case).
Being their nanny, I didn't have to do things for the family 'technically' in my off hours. But I knew that having a child was taxing, and occasionally I would tidy up for them, sweep, clean up the kitchen after a meal, put away the dishes, sweep off the front porch, or just do something that hadn't been gotten to quite yet. Sometimes no one noticed I did it, but when it was obvious that I'd gone a little above and beyond, there was always a thank you for it.
About two years later, the family made plans to relocate to Australia, and I moved out just ahead of them, leaving the space I'd occupied in good condition. But a funny thing happened. A few months before I had moved out, I mentioned to my housemates that I kept hearing scratchings and scrapings in the walls of my bathroom, which, being subterranean, could have been easily accessed by rodents at ground level. I got a call from my housemate not long after I had left, and she sounded quite put off. She said that she was surprised I had left my bathroom such a mess, and that a good amount of dirt and refuse was tracked all over the bathroom floor. Upon closer examination, it was discovered that a squirrel had burrowed its way into and through the bathroom wall, eventually boring all the way into the basement bathroom, hence the 'tracked in' dirt and mess on the floor.
After I left, the father of the household, whom I had come to admire and care for deeply as a great friend, mentioned that he missed me living with them. He said 'You were always pretty quiet, so it's not much different when we're up here and you're not down there. But when I do think about the fact that you're not down there, I feel sad." It was nice to know I had made such a good impression, and I keep in contact with the family to this day.
From there I moved in with a brand new mother and father and their tiny baby boy, having met the family via Craigslist. They offered me a really amazing private suite in a sprawling house surrounded by woodlands. But in less than two months, just as my job was supposed to technically begin full-time, the mother of the household lost her job, and they could no longer afford to have a live-in nanny, so I moved again.
Once more, via Craigslist, I met a local Michigan couple who were interested in sharing a truly humongous historic farmhouse that had actually been moved by truck from its original farm to an outlying location on seven beautiful acres. There was a barn with horse stalls and chicken coops, a pasture, and the sky wheeled with Cooper's hawks. Trees draped over the winding dirt road that led to the home, and deer leaped through the fields. They offered to share part of the front room as an office, and provided me with a private room and shared bath (with a totally awesome original claw-footed bathtub!). The view from my room looked West to a pasture and trees, and a little dirt road called 'Hobbiton Lane' wound away into the green landscape.
Again we shared the kitchen and the household duties, and no fights ever arose between us. They had an old English bulldog and a very aloof kitty, as well as visiting grandkids. Several folks moved in and out of the rooms upstairs, but they were all amicable. We never locked our doors - I never even had a key to the house, because I didn't need one - and it was truly a delight to live there. The extensive grounds were maintained by a lawn service (set up by the out-of-state homeowners) so we had it fairly easy in that regard. There were big, friendly get-togethers at that house - we had a band in the barn, and had many gatherings around the fire pit. But the homeowners decided to sell, and we were all left hanging, wondering if we would have to disband, or if we should go ahead and move elsewhere together. In the end, after some nail-biting and doing our best to trust the Universe, we found the house we currently share, a lakeside, wooded, single-family home. Though we've never written a contract or formal agreement concerning my 'lease' with them, I've committed to staying with them, until June of 2012. At the new place things are a bit more cramped, and we have to do the yard work ourselves, but everyone pitches in, and we still get on well. The formal lease on the house goes for three years, but I've made the decision to move on, not because of dissatisfaction in the house or the housemates, but simply because I sense it's time.
I'm essentially very used to sharing living spaces, and I truly enjoy being part of a sort of hodgepodge of folks. I say something when I'm concerned, stay open to communication, and still try to go the extra mile now and again to let my housemates know that I appreciate the same from them.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
"There's a red sock over yonder..."
While working as a live-in nanny for a wonderful, vivacious family in Ann Arbor, I had the pleasure of caring for a wonderful, inventive and truly extraordinary little boy. He went along with my oddball, spontaneous ideas, which, among other things, included making up rather ridiculous songs. One morning, as I was dressing him on his changing table (he was two, perhaps a wee bit older) he lifted the foot I had just dressed in a red sock, pulled the sock off, and threw it quite a distance across the room.
For some reason, the Jimi Hendrix song 'Red House' popped into my head, and I began to sing:
"Oh, there's a red sock over yonder - that's where my foot it stays. I haven't had my foot inside that sock for 99 and one-half days!"
I already had the precious little guy in stitches, and as he waggled his bare feet in midair, carrying Jimi's original tune, I kept singing:
"Now wait a minute, somethin's wrong - I thought I had two socks here on the floor - I said, wait a minute! Somethin's wrong! I thought I had two socks here on the floor. I got a real, real, real bad feelin... that I do not have two socks here anymore!"
From that day forward, 'the red sock song' was often requested, and being the bright little boy he was, he also started saying "Wait a minute!", usually in perfect (and rather boggling) context. When he asked for me to sing the sock song, sometimes I could belt it out with as much gusto and humor as I had the first time. Sometimes I had a little less energy and wasn't up to it. But he always laughed, and so did I. And every once in a while, when I see a red sock, I start singing the words of 'the red sock song' to myself.
For some reason, the Jimi Hendrix song 'Red House' popped into my head, and I began to sing:
"Oh, there's a red sock over yonder - that's where my foot it stays. I haven't had my foot inside that sock for 99 and one-half days!"
I already had the precious little guy in stitches, and as he waggled his bare feet in midair, carrying Jimi's original tune, I kept singing:
"Now wait a minute, somethin's wrong - I thought I had two socks here on the floor - I said, wait a minute! Somethin's wrong! I thought I had two socks here on the floor. I got a real, real, real bad feelin... that I do not have two socks here anymore!"
From that day forward, 'the red sock song' was often requested, and being the bright little boy he was, he also started saying "Wait a minute!", usually in perfect (and rather boggling) context. When he asked for me to sing the sock song, sometimes I could belt it out with as much gusto and humor as I had the first time. Sometimes I had a little less energy and wasn't up to it. But he always laughed, and so did I. And every once in a while, when I see a red sock, I start singing the words of 'the red sock song' to myself.
Environmentally Conscious: Making an Effort
I happen to live in a place where a good percentage of the population is aware of, and concerned about, the plight of the environment. But even as I do everything I can, I often feel it's not enough. I still encounter people who reject the idea of global warming, who toss perfectly recyclable materials, who use single-use utensils and plates at home, run the dishwasher every day half-full, and seem not to care that they're basically fouling their own nest.
If the dishwasher has a 'heated dry' setting, I turn it off. If I can wash the dishes by hand, I do
I donate to environmental foundations, support activists, and have taken part in activist protests
I decline products that have packaging that's hard on the environment
I donate clothing and other used items so they don't end up in the landfill
I unplug anything I'm not using
I use energy efficient bulbs
I eat a vegetarian diet
I use water from the dehumidifier in the basement to water my houseplants, hand-wash my clothes and even bathe
I take home other people's recyclables (if they live in an area that doesn't recycle certain items) and recycle them
I encourage people to use less water, to turn off lights, to compost and just use less in general
I buy as much of my produce as possible from the local farmer's market, and buy organic almost across the board.
I look at packaging for GMOs, and for the recycling (and chemical) content of the box or the can itself
I use cold water when I wash clothes, and line dry whenever possible
I drive a car that gets 35 miles to the gallon, and walk to work twice a week
I look for everything I absolutely need in thrift and resale shops
While there's a lot more I could be doing, and while I often feel like part of the problem rather than the solution, I do my best to keep a positive outlook, and I remember a quote from Oren Lyons, an Iroquois tribal leader:
"In our way of life, in our government, with every decision we make, we always keep in mind the Seventh Generation to come. It's our job to see that the people coming ahead, the generations still unborn, have a world no worse than ours and hopefully better. When we walk upon Mother Earth we always plant our feet carefully because we know the faces of our future generations are looking up at us from beneath the ground. We never forget them."
If the dishwasher has a 'heated dry' setting, I turn it off. If I can wash the dishes by hand, I do
I donate to environmental foundations, support activists, and have taken part in activist protests
I decline products that have packaging that's hard on the environment
I donate clothing and other used items so they don't end up in the landfill
I unplug anything I'm not using
I use energy efficient bulbs
I eat a vegetarian diet
I use water from the dehumidifier in the basement to water my houseplants, hand-wash my clothes and even bathe
I take home other people's recyclables (if they live in an area that doesn't recycle certain items) and recycle them
I encourage people to use less water, to turn off lights, to compost and just use less in general
I buy as much of my produce as possible from the local farmer's market, and buy organic almost across the board.
I look at packaging for GMOs, and for the recycling (and chemical) content of the box or the can itself
I use cold water when I wash clothes, and line dry whenever possible
I drive a car that gets 35 miles to the gallon, and walk to work twice a week
I look for everything I absolutely need in thrift and resale shops
While there's a lot more I could be doing, and while I often feel like part of the problem rather than the solution, I do my best to keep a positive outlook, and I remember a quote from Oren Lyons, an Iroquois tribal leader:
"In our way of life, in our government, with every decision we make, we always keep in mind the Seventh Generation to come. It's our job to see that the people coming ahead, the generations still unborn, have a world no worse than ours and hopefully better. When we walk upon Mother Earth we always plant our feet carefully because we know the faces of our future generations are looking up at us from beneath the ground. We never forget them."
"Make me a Duck Pancake, please?"
One of the more memorable challenges I've encountered with children is their attitude about eating - now there are some children who don't stop thinking about snacks and have no problem downing a peanut butter sandwich faster than you can say 'hippopotamus'. But there are children who are either picky, indifferent, or just against the whole idea of eating in general. I understand this to a great extent, because to eat, you have to stop whatever it is you're doing. That might be reading a favorite book, building something in the sandbox, or concentrating on a drawing. To stop and stare into a plate of stuff that does nothing interesting is, well... really boring.
Even though I never had any problem being convinced to eat (as far as I can remember) my mother had some great ideas about how to make food fun. I vividly recall the plates she fixed for me where radishes were eyes, raisins were lashes, broccoli was hair, a carrot was the nose, and little squares of cheddar cheese were teeth. Slices of green pepper were ears, and rolls of some sort of lunch meat was the mouth. I vividly remember the giggles such presentations induced, and it must have left a deep impression, because when I began encounter little people who had issues with eating, I immediately resorted to 'food face'.
Instead of saying "Time to eat your oatmeal," I tried, "You're oatmeal is smiling now." And the quizzical 'huh?' look I got, followed by the padding of little feet over to the counter to see exactly how oatmeal could possibly 'smile', was utterly priceless. Without being asked, the little one who usually made the whole affair a difficulty dipped the spoon in, took a bite, and then declared "I just ate the oatmeal's nose!"
One of the funniest 'food faces' happened entirely by accident, when a little boy who was notorious for making eating a trip up Mount Everest, asked for an omelet with grape tomatoes and a pancake. The half-circle shape of the omelet went kerplop onto the plate first, and the size of the pancake left little room on the plate for the tomatoes, so I folded the pancake in half. Being the sort of person that is always a little childish, I lifted up the flap of the pancake, and made it 'talk' a little. Then I looked at the tomatoes, and got an idea. I put two in the omelet, and tucked one inside the pancake. When I put the plate down in front of my picky little eater, he burst into giggles, and said "Jorie, I didn't say I wanted a duck for breakfast!" But he ate every bite.
Even though I never had any problem being convinced to eat (as far as I can remember) my mother had some great ideas about how to make food fun. I vividly recall the plates she fixed for me where radishes were eyes, raisins were lashes, broccoli was hair, a carrot was the nose, and little squares of cheddar cheese were teeth. Slices of green pepper were ears, and rolls of some sort of lunch meat was the mouth. I vividly remember the giggles such presentations induced, and it must have left a deep impression, because when I began encounter little people who had issues with eating, I immediately resorted to 'food face'.
Instead of saying "Time to eat your oatmeal," I tried, "You're oatmeal is smiling now." And the quizzical 'huh?' look I got, followed by the padding of little feet over to the counter to see exactly how oatmeal could possibly 'smile', was utterly priceless. Without being asked, the little one who usually made the whole affair a difficulty dipped the spoon in, took a bite, and then declared "I just ate the oatmeal's nose!"
One of the funniest 'food faces' happened entirely by accident, when a little boy who was notorious for making eating a trip up Mount Everest, asked for an omelet with grape tomatoes and a pancake. The half-circle shape of the omelet went kerplop onto the plate first, and the size of the pancake left little room on the plate for the tomatoes, so I folded the pancake in half. Being the sort of person that is always a little childish, I lifted up the flap of the pancake, and made it 'talk' a little. Then I looked at the tomatoes, and got an idea. I put two in the omelet, and tucked one inside the pancake. When I put the plate down in front of my picky little eater, he burst into giggles, and said "Jorie, I didn't say I wanted a duck for breakfast!" But he ate every bite.
As a child...
I was raised in a very small family of four in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois. My parents were anti-war marchers, environmental activists, conservationists, and highly frugal, creative, intelligent and articulate people. By example they taught me that material things were unimportant, and by living very simply they provided a truly stable, enjoyable life for us. I have one younger sibling, a brother, and he and I enjoyed growing up in an area still dominated by fields, farmsteads, and wild, weeded lots.
My mother, having been an art teacher, exposed us to all manner of creative expressions, and let us run wild with ideas of play and exploration. She made our Halloween costumes every year, entertained us with wonderful 'voices' at story time, and made up personalities for every one of our favorite stuffed animals. When we were ill, she would make up little plays at the ends of our beds with the characters she'd created.
My father, who had studied to be an English teacher, had worked as a designer and a draftsman, and then later took employment at American Airlines. Being a man of incredible work ethic, deeply private, but loyal and kind, my father has always been meticulous with his finances. He had purchased our family home with cash, and also purchased 300 acres of land in nearby Wisconsin, as an investment for our family's future. His passion for many years has been prewar English cars and motorcycles, and he had owned several rather rare models, including an Alvis, a Riley Kestrel, and as motorbikes go, he has enjoyed ownership of Velocettes, BSAs and Vincent Rapides.
My grandfather, who lived next door in a house his wife had designed (but did not get to enjoy before her death), was a spirited, and deeply religious man, and I was undoubtedly the jewel of his eye. He doted upon me and spoiled me, and I have many precious memories of toting my pillow and blanket across the yard, wearing my pajamas, for a sleepover at grandpa's house.
My maternal grandmother lived nearby, but came to live with us for a time when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. She later went to live in a nursing home, but I still have memories of the bright, engaging and spirited woman she was before the disease took hold.
My brother now lives in my late grandfather's house, keeps bees, and, in tandem with my parents, maintains a sprawling garden with heirloom plants. My parents compost, collect water in rain barrels, carry gray water in buckets to flush the toilet, pick apples from forgotten trees to make pies, bake their own bread, buy anything they can from second-hand stores, and haven't had curbside garbage pickup for 40 years.
My mother, having been an art teacher, exposed us to all manner of creative expressions, and let us run wild with ideas of play and exploration. She made our Halloween costumes every year, entertained us with wonderful 'voices' at story time, and made up personalities for every one of our favorite stuffed animals. When we were ill, she would make up little plays at the ends of our beds with the characters she'd created.
My father, who had studied to be an English teacher, had worked as a designer and a draftsman, and then later took employment at American Airlines. Being a man of incredible work ethic, deeply private, but loyal and kind, my father has always been meticulous with his finances. He had purchased our family home with cash, and also purchased 300 acres of land in nearby Wisconsin, as an investment for our family's future. His passion for many years has been prewar English cars and motorcycles, and he had owned several rather rare models, including an Alvis, a Riley Kestrel, and as motorbikes go, he has enjoyed ownership of Velocettes, BSAs and Vincent Rapides.
My grandfather, who lived next door in a house his wife had designed (but did not get to enjoy before her death), was a spirited, and deeply religious man, and I was undoubtedly the jewel of his eye. He doted upon me and spoiled me, and I have many precious memories of toting my pillow and blanket across the yard, wearing my pajamas, for a sleepover at grandpa's house.
My maternal grandmother lived nearby, but came to live with us for a time when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. She later went to live in a nursing home, but I still have memories of the bright, engaging and spirited woman she was before the disease took hold.
My brother now lives in my late grandfather's house, keeps bees, and, in tandem with my parents, maintains a sprawling garden with heirloom plants. My parents compost, collect water in rain barrels, carry gray water in buckets to flush the toilet, pick apples from forgotten trees to make pies, bake their own bread, buy anything they can from second-hand stores, and haven't had curbside garbage pickup for 40 years.
A Life List: Things I've done / Things yet to do
Things checked off the list
*Ride in a hot air balloon
*Fly a single-engine plane / fly in a float plane
*Leave the continental U.S.
*Gallop through a field on horseback
*overcome my fear of going to the dentist
*Perform live in a band
*Find a fitness regiment that works and stick with it
*Let go of worry
*Go hang-gliding
*become a vegetarian
*Publish my poetry
*Learn how to windsurf (beginner)
*Record my own original music in a true recording studio
*Make a little money from my creative ideas
*Stay a child
Things Yet to Do
*Swim with Manta Rays
*Become a better guitarist
*Learn to play the cello
*Live in the UK, even briefly
*make a living as an artist
*Finish my screenplays and novels
*see a life-sized Maquette (done by a professional film industry sculptor) of Blackbard the Feathabee
*Make it to Base Camp at Everest
*Go to Tasmania
*Build a great lifelong relationship with one very special person
*Tour as a folk singer
*admire a Great White shark from the safety of an underwater cage
*Ride in a hot air balloon
*Fly a single-engine plane / fly in a float plane
*Leave the continental U.S.
*Gallop through a field on horseback
*overcome my fear of going to the dentist
*Perform live in a band
*Find a fitness regiment that works and stick with it
*Let go of worry
*Go hang-gliding
*become a vegetarian
*Publish my poetry
*Learn how to windsurf (beginner)
*Record my own original music in a true recording studio
*Make a little money from my creative ideas
*Stay a child
Things Yet to Do
*Swim with Manta Rays
*Become a better guitarist
*Learn to play the cello
*Live in the UK, even briefly
*make a living as an artist
*Finish my screenplays and novels
*see a life-sized Maquette (done by a professional film industry sculptor) of Blackbard the Feathabee
*Make it to Base Camp at Everest
*Go to Tasmania
*Build a great lifelong relationship with one very special person
*Tour as a folk singer
*admire a Great White shark from the safety of an underwater cage
Saturday, October 22, 2011
So why would I leave Ann Arbor Michigan for the Pacific Northwest?
Oddly enough, my love affair with the Pacific Northwest began at least fifteen years ago, when I saw a music video featuring images of the Olympic Peninsula. At the time I felt I had seen a glimpse of heaven - The misty peaks blanketed in pines, the pristine waterways, and the expanses of beach strewn with driftwood captured my imagination, and not long after I found myself on holiday there, via Seattle. Vancouver, Victoria Island, the San Juans and the entire coast of Washington proved that my feelings at a distance were right-on. The majestic and otherworldly Rainier, the winding climb to the lodge at Olympic National Park, the strange, captivating drapes of greenery in the Hoh rainforest, and the presence of something unexplainable and ancient, made the place very hard to leave behind.
I made my way back to the area several times, and each time the same feeling of resonance returned, the same sense that I was 'home'. Going back to the flat, linear rigidness of Chicago, and living amongst mini-malls, where the only 'mountains' were landfills, I felt spiritually sore.
I made plans to head West in my late twenties, and had one foot out the door to do so (actually looking at quotes on rental trucks) but that same week I met a truly different gentleman that stalled me in midair - He was living and working in Chicago, so, as they say 'the things we do for love...'
I left Chicago when I was 31, following my beau East rather than West, to take up his faculty position at University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, a town I had never heard of before. Now, there are many great things to be said about Ann Arbor - The Royal Shakespeare Company performs here, and the Dalai Lama stops by every once in a while. Zingerman's Deli, the thrift circuit, the Farmer's Market, the Ann Arbor Film Festival and Art Fair, and the general liberal leanings of the town make it a sort of 'Little London', a bubble of culture and academia 'surrounded by reality'. On the flip-side, (not being a college football fan at all) I am tired of game day, of the football traffic and the blue and maize craze, and I won't miss trying to cross central campus by car when classes have just let out.
Working fairly seriously as an artist, and having put much effort into going professional in the Ann Arbor Art Fair, Artisan's Market and local art shows, I've seen much interest in my work, but I can't make it as an artist full time. I've felt the pinch that everyone else is feeling here in the economically thinned state of Michigan - It's a tough call to be an artist wherever you go, but in a move West I'm hoping to relocate to a community where the opportunities are not as limited, where the population of artists and art-supporters is larger, and where there are sure to be like-minded, green-thinking free spirits like me.
Moving to and living in a place is not like visiting there, of course, so I know that there will surely be days where I see Mount Hood or Mount Rainier looming off in the distance, and I'll have to sigh and say "Another day". But when that blazing, sunny day off comes, I won't have to hop a plane to get to the snow-capped peaks, and just a short hike on the highway will find my feet splashing in the chilly foam of the Pacific.
I made my way back to the area several times, and each time the same feeling of resonance returned, the same sense that I was 'home'. Going back to the flat, linear rigidness of Chicago, and living amongst mini-malls, where the only 'mountains' were landfills, I felt spiritually sore.
I made plans to head West in my late twenties, and had one foot out the door to do so (actually looking at quotes on rental trucks) but that same week I met a truly different gentleman that stalled me in midair - He was living and working in Chicago, so, as they say 'the things we do for love...'
I left Chicago when I was 31, following my beau East rather than West, to take up his faculty position at University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, a town I had never heard of before. Now, there are many great things to be said about Ann Arbor - The Royal Shakespeare Company performs here, and the Dalai Lama stops by every once in a while. Zingerman's Deli, the thrift circuit, the Farmer's Market, the Ann Arbor Film Festival and Art Fair, and the general liberal leanings of the town make it a sort of 'Little London', a bubble of culture and academia 'surrounded by reality'. On the flip-side, (not being a college football fan at all) I am tired of game day, of the football traffic and the blue and maize craze, and I won't miss trying to cross central campus by car when classes have just let out.
Working fairly seriously as an artist, and having put much effort into going professional in the Ann Arbor Art Fair, Artisan's Market and local art shows, I've seen much interest in my work, but I can't make it as an artist full time. I've felt the pinch that everyone else is feeling here in the economically thinned state of Michigan - It's a tough call to be an artist wherever you go, but in a move West I'm hoping to relocate to a community where the opportunities are not as limited, where the population of artists and art-supporters is larger, and where there are sure to be like-minded, green-thinking free spirits like me.
Moving to and living in a place is not like visiting there, of course, so I know that there will surely be days where I see Mount Hood or Mount Rainier looming off in the distance, and I'll have to sigh and say "Another day". But when that blazing, sunny day off comes, I won't have to hop a plane to get to the snow-capped peaks, and just a short hike on the highway will find my feet splashing in the chilly foam of the Pacific.
Being a Nanny: Various duties
Though I have held a good number of jobs in life, the 'profession' that I've gravitated to the longest (and have enjoyed the most) is being a nanny. I've served quite a number of families in the Midwest, and recently found myself reflecting on the many duties that have been a part of my daily nanny routine over the years. These included:
*preparing lunches, seeing the children off to the bus
*transporting children to and from school in the family car, or on foot
*preparing family meals in the home
*laundry
*dishes
*feeding children all meals
*changing diapers, changing diapers, and changing more diapers
*light, moderate and extensive cleaning
*house-sitting and pet care
*assisting with
*transporting the entire family to the airport for local and international family travel
*overnight stays
*music play with my own instruments
*supervising play dates with several children in the family home
*walking the family dog
*carpooling in the family car to take neighborhood children to school
*providing care during illness for both parents and children
*shopping for family meals
*going on a broad array of field trips in my own vehicle
*overseeing a large number of children at multifamily parties
*helping the children choose holiday gifts for others
*providing packing, moving, and unpacking assistance
*helping with holiday and party decorating
*garden care, watering and harvesting
*home improvements (painting, creating murals)
*written contributions for early intervention programs and behavioral assessments
*creative play with provided and improvised materials
*infant transitioning from mother's milk to the bottle
*potty training for both boys and girls
*public pool trips
*long bicycle rides with the baby 'chariot' in tow
*river wading, swimming, outdoor water sports
*tennis lessons
*implementing parental disciplinary regiments
*learning languages spoken in multilingual families to facilitate the children's grasp of new words
Of course as I continue to work with children and their families new duties will arise, but if I've learned one thing about working with families and children, it is that I must be ready for anything, and be ready with a smile!
*preparing lunches, seeing the children off to the bus
*transporting children to and from school in the family car, or on foot
*preparing family meals in the home
*laundry
*dishes
*feeding children all meals
*changing diapers, changing diapers, and changing more diapers
*light, moderate and extensive cleaning
*house-sitting and pet care
*assisting with
*transporting the entire family to the airport for local and international family travel
*overnight stays
*music play with my own instruments
*supervising play dates with several children in the family home
*walking the family dog
*carpooling in the family car to take neighborhood children to school
*providing care during illness for both parents and children
*shopping for family meals
*going on a broad array of field trips in my own vehicle
*overseeing a large number of children at multifamily parties
*helping the children choose holiday gifts for others
*providing packing, moving, and unpacking assistance
*helping with holiday and party decorating
*garden care, watering and harvesting
*home improvements (painting, creating murals)
*written contributions for early intervention programs and behavioral assessments
*creative play with provided and improvised materials
*infant transitioning from mother's milk to the bottle
*potty training for both boys and girls
*public pool trips
*long bicycle rides with the baby 'chariot' in tow
*river wading, swimming, outdoor water sports
*tennis lessons
*implementing parental disciplinary regiments
*learning languages spoken in multilingual families to facilitate the children's grasp of new words
Of course as I continue to work with children and their families new duties will arise, but if I've learned one thing about working with families and children, it is that I must be ready for anything, and be ready with a smile!
Athleticism and Miles the Dog
Coming from a family motivated predominantly by conservationism and creativity, I didn't have a big foundation in athletics, and it was never even suggested that I try track and field or soccer, though I proved to the the second-fastest runner in my middle school in a phys. ed. sprint tryout. Throughout my first three decades (apart from a brief stint at 23 when I found a really great workout video by Rachel McLish) it never really occurred to me to exercise.
In my mid-thirties, I had been living in a co-housing arrangement for some time with four friendly adults, all of whom had extensive social networks. One way or another, a friend of a friend needed us to look after their little Chihuahua/Jack Russell named Miles, and being dog people my friends agreed to take him in for a week while his human family spent time abroad.
Miles came in a kennel, and was left mostly by himself in the mudroom / dining area. Growling threateningly at first, he quickly warmed to me as I set treats closer and closer to him, and then finally passed them through the bars into his happy jaws. My friends, leaning toward the 'old blundering dog' type, weren't very fond of Miles because he was, well... spasmodic. Jack Russells have springs built in, and need a lot of running about to exhaust their curiosity and energetic spirits. So, having a heart for the little furry being locked up in a box without any attention, I started taking Miles out on 'walks' (which, at the dog's insistence, were far closer to 'runs').
Two walks became three, then four, and while the first few trots back toward the house found me feeling as though I was about to unceremoniously kick the bucket, after several days I realized I felt quite sensational. By the time Miles left for home again, I found I wanted to continue the trend of moving quickly, breaking a sweat, and feeling cleansed of something upon return. So I began to jog every morning, no matter what, and fell in love with it. I bought a pair of running shoes from the Kiwanis thrift sale, found a pair of jogging pants, and stuck to it.
At the time I lived in a very rural setting, and could take the side- and back roads that wound past farms, broad homesteads, wooded lots and rolling green fields. This fed my desire to continue, because I appreciated the sinuous snake trails I encountered along the roadside, rejoiced when the shadow of the hawk swept through mine upon the ground, and laughed a deep, spirit laugh when Sun Dogs flanked the sun in the afternoon sky. The fresh air was cleansing, nature was inspiring, and my body almost instantly craved the exertion.
As early spring began to unleash thunderstorms, I thought about the fact that I didn't want to have any excuse not to get my run in for the day, and I found myself signing up to a local gym 'just in case', for those days when it just wasn't safe or reasonable to throw myself around in the fresh air. A few days a week I worked out at the gym, and every other day I ran.
I had a lot to learn about what to expect of my body, and went through a series of backaches, limpy days and sore knees before figuring out that I had to get the rest of my body in shape to keep doing the running I loved. So I started experimenting with the Eliptical, the recumbent bike, the treadmill and the weights at the gym. I was timid at first with the weights idea, so I worked with a personal trainer for several sessions, just to make sure the regiment I had set for myself wasn't going to turn my muscles to raspberry jelly in three months. My trainer assumed, oddly, that I was already very athletic, complimenting my knowledge of nutrition and exercise plans. He told me I was one of the most informed clients he'd ever worked with, and consequently, he had far more faith in my abilities than he should have, and I ended up pulling my Trapezius - but it was only a minor setback. Soon I was running miles and miles (thanks to Miles) on the treadmill, doing the stepper like a madwoman, and meandering through the free weights in such a way that made even the old gymsters just assume I had been at it forever.
The best part of the whole experience has been the human interaction factor - being a very open, accessible and in-love-with-life sort of person, I'll take up a conversation with anyone that seems open to it, and in the process I've met men and women from all walks of life, of all ages and fitness levels. Eighteen months later, I know most of the people at the gym by their first names, and the act of working out, which in itself is a natural upper, is enhanced by the anticipation of seeing the faces I know and enjoy.
Even though I no longer live in the rural location that afforded me a blissfully wild outdoor running opportunity, I run in the out-of-doors whenever I can, and can't imagine a time in my life when I wouldn't continue to exert myself as I do now.
In my mid-thirties, I had been living in a co-housing arrangement for some time with four friendly adults, all of whom had extensive social networks. One way or another, a friend of a friend needed us to look after their little Chihuahua/Jack Russell named Miles, and being dog people my friends agreed to take him in for a week while his human family spent time abroad.
Miles came in a kennel, and was left mostly by himself in the mudroom / dining area. Growling threateningly at first, he quickly warmed to me as I set treats closer and closer to him, and then finally passed them through the bars into his happy jaws. My friends, leaning toward the 'old blundering dog' type, weren't very fond of Miles because he was, well... spasmodic. Jack Russells have springs built in, and need a lot of running about to exhaust their curiosity and energetic spirits. So, having a heart for the little furry being locked up in a box without any attention, I started taking Miles out on 'walks' (which, at the dog's insistence, were far closer to 'runs').
Two walks became three, then four, and while the first few trots back toward the house found me feeling as though I was about to unceremoniously kick the bucket, after several days I realized I felt quite sensational. By the time Miles left for home again, I found I wanted to continue the trend of moving quickly, breaking a sweat, and feeling cleansed of something upon return. So I began to jog every morning, no matter what, and fell in love with it. I bought a pair of running shoes from the Kiwanis thrift sale, found a pair of jogging pants, and stuck to it.
At the time I lived in a very rural setting, and could take the side- and back roads that wound past farms, broad homesteads, wooded lots and rolling green fields. This fed my desire to continue, because I appreciated the sinuous snake trails I encountered along the roadside, rejoiced when the shadow of the hawk swept through mine upon the ground, and laughed a deep, spirit laugh when Sun Dogs flanked the sun in the afternoon sky. The fresh air was cleansing, nature was inspiring, and my body almost instantly craved the exertion.
As early spring began to unleash thunderstorms, I thought about the fact that I didn't want to have any excuse not to get my run in for the day, and I found myself signing up to a local gym 'just in case', for those days when it just wasn't safe or reasonable to throw myself around in the fresh air. A few days a week I worked out at the gym, and every other day I ran.
I had a lot to learn about what to expect of my body, and went through a series of backaches, limpy days and sore knees before figuring out that I had to get the rest of my body in shape to keep doing the running I loved. So I started experimenting with the Eliptical, the recumbent bike, the treadmill and the weights at the gym. I was timid at first with the weights idea, so I worked with a personal trainer for several sessions, just to make sure the regiment I had set for myself wasn't going to turn my muscles to raspberry jelly in three months. My trainer assumed, oddly, that I was already very athletic, complimenting my knowledge of nutrition and exercise plans. He told me I was one of the most informed clients he'd ever worked with, and consequently, he had far more faith in my abilities than he should have, and I ended up pulling my Trapezius - but it was only a minor setback. Soon I was running miles and miles (thanks to Miles) on the treadmill, doing the stepper like a madwoman, and meandering through the free weights in such a way that made even the old gymsters just assume I had been at it forever.
The best part of the whole experience has been the human interaction factor - being a very open, accessible and in-love-with-life sort of person, I'll take up a conversation with anyone that seems open to it, and in the process I've met men and women from all walks of life, of all ages and fitness levels. Eighteen months later, I know most of the people at the gym by their first names, and the act of working out, which in itself is a natural upper, is enhanced by the anticipation of seeing the faces I know and enjoy.
Even though I no longer live in the rural location that afforded me a blissfully wild outdoor running opportunity, I run in the out-of-doors whenever I can, and can't imagine a time in my life when I wouldn't continue to exert myself as I do now.
Joy List
scampering through the walled churchyard gardens, led by the children and carrying the baby, and sneaking through the old gate left ajar
chives and intoxicating, floating scent of the sweet Alyssum
making a paper rocket, then an astronaut, then the whole solar system (with some four-year-old help), and taping it all up on the playroom wall
the ghost-shapes of leaves on wet pavement
the baby's gurgled, cooing songs to everything
the scent of wintergreen
a "love you much" from dad
leaving the gym with my dear friend Art, and walking out into the rain together
the tannin of autumn, and the stunning radiance of the sugar maple's leaves at their height of color
chives and intoxicating, floating scent of the sweet Alyssum
making a paper rocket, then an astronaut, then the whole solar system (with some four-year-old help), and taping it all up on the playroom wall
the ghost-shapes of leaves on wet pavement
the baby's gurgled, cooing songs to everything
the scent of wintergreen
a "love you much" from dad
leaving the gym with my dear friend Art, and walking out into the rain together
the tannin of autumn, and the stunning radiance of the sugar maple's leaves at their height of color
Perceptions: Looking up to your Elders
As a child I perceived my parents and parental models as godlike, as most children probably do, and I assumed they could do anything, knew everything, and were incapable of error. Surely they didn't succumb to bad thoughts or behaviors, and certainly they had never done anything like smoke or get drunk or have premarital sex.
When I came to the point in life where cigarettes were available, and when I saw a close friend emulating her chain-smoking mother in times of duress, I tried it too, but I felt simply awful because I believed my parents hadn't fallen into that trap. But then, by chance, I found a pack of cigarettes sequestered away in my mother's car, and I felt betrayed. She had even told me not to smoke, and that it was bad for me - and yet she was doing it!
When I also gave into my hormones as a young girl (while going very steady with a sweet boy my age) my mother told me she suspected me of having sex and scolded me harshly. Again I felt terribly guilty and and wondered what was wrong with me. I had done the math, and I had been conceived well after my parents' wedding, appearing just a week after their first anniversary. So in my fifteen-year-old mind, I was 'legit', and my folks, by some unlikely miracle, had kept their drawers on in an otherwise hornball-infested world.
Years later, my mother spoke (in a roundabout way) of a moment when her things and 'a man's things' were mingling on a side table, and she found herself sketching the objects, because she knew the object might not be together like that again. As it dawned on me that my mother hadn't been as celibate as I had always imagined, again I felt a sense of betrayal and even disappointment, but it also alleviated the pressure I had felt within myself to be so morally perfect. I understood that in being secretive about impulses and passions, my mother was trying to present a good example for me to follow. But when I did learn that others made mistakes and fumbled around in the fog just as I was, I felt far less faulty.
So when 'J', a little boy I had been a nanny to for many years, spoke with me about the downsides of smoking, I found myself in a situation I hadn't anticipated, and realized the unique opportunity present in that moment.
We were sitting in my old silver Civic, with his car seat buckled in just behind me so that I could see his alert and adorable little face framed perfectly in my rear-view mirror. He was four at the time, nearly five, and was one of the most articulate, bright and thoughtful children I had ever known.
"Well, everybody knows that smoking is a bad thing. I mean you - you would never smoke a cigarette, Jorie. You just know better!"
"Actually," I said, "I used to smoke."
I gave a glance to the mirror, and J's jaw had dropped, his pale blue eyes boggling incredibly.
"You're pulling my leg!" he retorted.
"Nope. I was a lot younger then, and I saw other people doing it, so I thought that's just what people did."
"But didn't anybody tell you it was bad for you?"
"Sure, but making mistakes is part of life, and figuring out what's right and wrong is hard for everybody, big, little or in-between."
His brows were a unforgettably angelic knot of concern. "So... You don't smoke anymore... Do you?"
"Oh no, I stopped doing that a long time ago. Now I do know better."
J blinked, absorbing it. "Oh." The world had altered a little in his mind, and the 'rearrange' of it was visible on his precious face. But then, after a moment of thought, he brightened, and said. "Okay."
When I came to the point in life where cigarettes were available, and when I saw a close friend emulating her chain-smoking mother in times of duress, I tried it too, but I felt simply awful because I believed my parents hadn't fallen into that trap. But then, by chance, I found a pack of cigarettes sequestered away in my mother's car, and I felt betrayed. She had even told me not to smoke, and that it was bad for me - and yet she was doing it!
When I also gave into my hormones as a young girl (while going very steady with a sweet boy my age) my mother told me she suspected me of having sex and scolded me harshly. Again I felt terribly guilty and and wondered what was wrong with me. I had done the math, and I had been conceived well after my parents' wedding, appearing just a week after their first anniversary. So in my fifteen-year-old mind, I was 'legit', and my folks, by some unlikely miracle, had kept their drawers on in an otherwise hornball-infested world.
Years later, my mother spoke (in a roundabout way) of a moment when her things and 'a man's things' were mingling on a side table, and she found herself sketching the objects, because she knew the object might not be together like that again. As it dawned on me that my mother hadn't been as celibate as I had always imagined, again I felt a sense of betrayal and even disappointment, but it also alleviated the pressure I had felt within myself to be so morally perfect. I understood that in being secretive about impulses and passions, my mother was trying to present a good example for me to follow. But when I did learn that others made mistakes and fumbled around in the fog just as I was, I felt far less faulty.
So when 'J', a little boy I had been a nanny to for many years, spoke with me about the downsides of smoking, I found myself in a situation I hadn't anticipated, and realized the unique opportunity present in that moment.
We were sitting in my old silver Civic, with his car seat buckled in just behind me so that I could see his alert and adorable little face framed perfectly in my rear-view mirror. He was four at the time, nearly five, and was one of the most articulate, bright and thoughtful children I had ever known.
"Well, everybody knows that smoking is a bad thing. I mean you - you would never smoke a cigarette, Jorie. You just know better!"
"Actually," I said, "I used to smoke."
I gave a glance to the mirror, and J's jaw had dropped, his pale blue eyes boggling incredibly.
"You're pulling my leg!" he retorted.
"Nope. I was a lot younger then, and I saw other people doing it, so I thought that's just what people did."
"But didn't anybody tell you it was bad for you?"
"Sure, but making mistakes is part of life, and figuring out what's right and wrong is hard for everybody, big, little or in-between."
His brows were a unforgettably angelic knot of concern. "So... You don't smoke anymore... Do you?"
"Oh no, I stopped doing that a long time ago. Now I do know better."
J blinked, absorbing it. "Oh." The world had altered a little in his mind, and the 'rearrange' of it was visible on his precious face. But then, after a moment of thought, he brightened, and said. "Okay."
Friday, October 21, 2011
A Joy List: Late October 2011
the steam rising off the steeping tea
fireworks that resemble Dandelions gone to seed
yellow leaves with blue sky behind them
Lenticular clouds
the way the old dog brushes her paw over her long dark nose
watching the candle asking the shadows on the wall to dance
the graceful, prickly arms of brittle stars
the piece of coral that Alex brought back for me from the mangroves of Darwin, Australia
the pouring rush of endorphins that laugh down your spine when you recline in bed
finding a perfect feather molted by a bird
the sigh of summer leaves as wind combs through them
imagining what the goldfish is saying to me
the last few lines of 'Waiting for Godot'
quoting lines from 'Star Wars' "TK-421 Why aren't you at your post?!"
freestyle midair dirt bike tricks
the rainbows that form at the bottom of waterfalls
the piercing, stark eye of the Great Blue Heron
old jeans with blown out knees
the way your scalp feels when someone else brushes your hair
watching fellow ants touch antennae as they meet and pass by one another
kicking through dry autumn leaves in flip flops
snail trails
raindrops plunking hard on the roof of the car
toe socks in ridiculous colors
making up nonsense phrases from the license plate on the car in front of me (for example: 'FUQ' becomes 'faulty underwear quandary'
feeling sweat break out on my shoulders and temples as I run
perfectly shaped wet (bare) footprints across a floor
fireworks that resemble Dandelions gone to seed
yellow leaves with blue sky behind them
Lenticular clouds
the way the old dog brushes her paw over her long dark nose
watching the candle asking the shadows on the wall to dance
the graceful, prickly arms of brittle stars
the piece of coral that Alex brought back for me from the mangroves of Darwin, Australia
the pouring rush of endorphins that laugh down your spine when you recline in bed
finding a perfect feather molted by a bird
the sigh of summer leaves as wind combs through them
imagining what the goldfish is saying to me
the last few lines of 'Waiting for Godot'
quoting lines from 'Star Wars' "TK-421 Why aren't you at your post?!"
freestyle midair dirt bike tricks
the rainbows that form at the bottom of waterfalls
the piercing, stark eye of the Great Blue Heron
old jeans with blown out knees
the way your scalp feels when someone else brushes your hair
watching fellow ants touch antennae as they meet and pass by one another
kicking through dry autumn leaves in flip flops
snail trails
raindrops plunking hard on the roof of the car
toe socks in ridiculous colors
making up nonsense phrases from the license plate on the car in front of me (for example: 'FUQ' becomes 'faulty underwear quandary'
feeling sweat break out on my shoulders and temples as I run
perfectly shaped wet (bare) footprints across a floor
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