Dear Diary,

Part 1 of potentially only 1.

The awesomeness of an adventure weekend presented itself as we reached ultimate fed-up-ness with the experience of waking up yet again to daunting day-to-day-life pressures.

And we have a great life, I am to remind you I am pleased I am not part of a 'normal' family routine.

It all started with the Family Reunion road trip--which leads to another more intriguing story, for another day--where we packed and slam-bam hit Kentucy in fewer than 36 hours after leaving home.

Tip #1: Avoid the Interstates
Tip #2: Look at the map of the campgrounds you might hit BEFORE you leave.

Driving blindly ahead at two am seeking a campsite the Garmin assured you you passed a half hour ago and a lonley sign once suggested you were on the right path is not ideal for sleepy travellers.

Tip #4: Make sure you have paper maps in addition to your GPS. Who knows if you're going to short out your charging outlet?

So the trip to Kentucky was quick, wet, and less than refressing. The perfect length of time for a road trip averages three week, within a few days on either side.

For example: Our three week tour through Wyoming, South Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, the UP of Michigan, the LP of Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, and aKansas. Or perhaps the three weeks through New Mexico to the Hill Counttry of Texas with a one week layover and then on to the Gulf of Mexico, along the Mexican border, Arizona Rockies, and Utah. Or even the two week quickie through Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio to Michigan and back.

A road trip is about windmills, campsites or hotels with windowseats, merry-go-rounds, slides and swings; rivers, lakes and beaches. A road trip is about dirt roads, the local pizzeria, brew pub, or greasy spoon. A road trip is about lookingin museums the size of my backyard and riding restored carosels. It's about inside jokes, pop songs on the sirus radio, and overused words. A road trip ais about making the country feel huge again.

Tip #4: Bring a Jacket.

So upon arriving home, we laid out our musty, smelly tents to dry, gave up and washed them over the next week, along with the sleeping bags that absorbed some of the August air from the midwest.

We had lives to reinhabit, work to employ us, and the same dirty dishes we'd left behind.

We were just getting to the part where we communicated well in a small space when the trip ended.

Tip #5: Use a road trip to strengthen your relationship. Nothing says I have time for you like being strapped in a metal egg for hours with someone.

We find ourselves talling about long-harbored issues with the casualness of how lovely the sunset is. Of course, there's a break-in period where we're both holding back and being abrasive, but the electricty finds the pat of least resistance and we open up.

Tip #6: Children are an exception to the fifth tip. They will argue more at the peak of the trip and again towards the end when they know they'll be home soon.

We clashed with each other and the kids for the week we were home, then we packed the trunk with horseshoes, frisbees, a skateboard and pads, fishing gear, tents, bags, charcoal, swimming suits and towels, and water and took off.

We had no idea where we were going.

Tip #7: Use recreational maps, not just road maps. Dirt roads do not mean 4x4 only.

On Friday, we ventured out timidly, skateboarding in Palisade, drinking a beer and eating popcorn at the brewery, and then heading home.

On Saturday, we were gone. We dropped off keys, said hi to a sister back from out of town, and took the highway down to Crawford, leaving Land's End and the Mesa for a different day.

We said hi to grandparents and looked at gardens growing, showed off our new car, and talked about the weather.

We drove to Paonia from the south and drank the best cherry soda ever made while playing chess at the brewery. We consulted a map and chose a dirt road to Crested Butte. We'd never been to Crested Butte.

Trains leaned in on the turns in the road-coal biled high. Huge miming operations glittered up the mountainsides in the sunset, hidden in the trees, extracting the black gold.

Tip #8: If searching for Craft Breweries, pick up the most recent copy of Rocky Mountain Brewing News, or the local equivalent, type in the address in the Garmin and go.

We got to the pub in Crested Butte, who sponsors the local hockey team, has a large deck for the chilly night air, and one girl running the whole kitchen.

Avacados must be in season. My daughter and husband split a bowl of deep-fried avacado slices, a salad topped with avacado, and an avacado, cheese, bacon, and tomato sandwich.

We drove up toward on of the little flags on the recreeational map indicating a campground. Garmin didn't believe us. Gothic, it said, was a town. The map didn't agree. We were determined to find the truth.

The road turned to dirt again and that--that fluffy-looking creature was a porcupine. Those were deer, and that was another porcupine. That might have been an owl.

Garmin won--Gothic is a teeny town founded for research in 1929. They had barrels--traffic barrels--orange and white striped--in the middle of the road, with 15 emblazoned on the speed limit signs perched on top.

Gunnison National Forest greeted us on the other side of the town, and I laughed at myself for using the car as an oversized flashlight to read the signs posted on the side of the road. I turned into the sign: Parking, no camping. The next: Parking, no camping, Later, after several more Parking, no camping signs, a larger one: Day Use Only: Flash Floods blah blah blah Please don't camp here Blah blah You'll regret it. Fine then.

Finally, the map wins--Goth the campground announces Bear Country and I pick up a pay envelope.

We tour the campground--#1 has a camping motorcyclist. Five feet later, #2 has a large truck. Another five feet and #3 has a little Subaru. Take a turn and immediately ahead is a 4-runner in #4, and to the left, #5 with nothing but a fire pit.

I pitch camp as the family sleeps. I pitch camp crooked, apparently.

Tip #9: No matter how tired you are, don't skimp on setting up camp properly. A bad night's sleep fror all can be a direct result of the pressure to get under the covers.

Remember the part about bringing a jacket? We camped at 9500 feet. It was cold. We were crooked and people and pets all slid to one end of the tent. The boy child had nightmares.

At some point in the darkness, both the husband and I are awake.
"This is camping," he said. "This is peaceful. Hear all that racket from Kentucky that's missing up here?" He's right, the silence at altitude is comforting. The constant white noise of insects punctuated with the staccato of various other night critters was disconcerting down near sea-level.

Dear Diary,

I went out for my normal knitting visit with friends, and managed to domino the rest of the day into oblivion.

I let my daughter get away with not working on her 4-H project.
I missed the bank.
I didn't stop for milk, which my husband really needed a shot of for the day.
I finished the errands so late I couldn't meet a friend for taking the kids to the Dinosaur Museum.

Then a friend posts in my feed the serenity prayer.

My dad had it on stained glass. It sat on the table, in bold, Catholic-window colors. It was a tri-fold frame, each pane with one part of the prayer. I didn't know it was a prayer each time I read it, which I did frequently. I know each line of lead, each pairing of colors. I can follow the ornamentation of the font. I think these words were the first things I memorized, etched into my mind as much as any education I've ever had.

Sometimes it's all in just remembering.

Dear Diary,

I have taken two plunges today, and bought a new mattress.

The mattress first: We're ditching our Sleep Number for a basic Sealy Posturepedic and topping it with a NexGel OrthoGel topper. It'll be awesome--in two weeks. *sigh*.

I have announced to those who might tend to expect things that I am going to try to go to the family reunion in Kentucky this year. Road trip! and camping. I'm already excited.

And lastly, I have fallen shy of my wordcount goal for the day by a mere fifty words. I don't want to start the next chapter yet. It is called "The Gospel According to Cassandra" where we learn what happens if we heed the advice of strangers. Maybe. I'm only to the third chapter. It might be something else in a while.

An Excerpt, for you, after the break:

Dear Diary,

So of all the petty things in the world, Facebook has offered me a forum for a deep sense of rejection.

Of the five or so years I've been on it, all but one has been waiting for a friend to approve my request of friendship. Which is odd, to me, because we were very, very close in school. At least, I thought we were.

That's where the rejection comes in.

I have a lot of "friends" on social networking sites--I enjoy vicarious contact as much as or more than real time, due to things like "expectations" and "dedication" and other friendly-like things I am not willing to offer to as many people as populate the list. There are people there I have actively forgotten about, or people I choose to watch from afar like a little stalker girl. I'm a good little stalker girl, though, nothing that isn't offered on the FB news feed. You can control that with your privacy settings. I just look at what pops up with interest and move on. There are friends I never expected to spend as much time exchanging ideas with as I do. And then there are people with whom I decided to enjoy "expectations" and "dedication"--these people I communicate with through social sites to arrange real-life meetings, or to supplement our face-to-face relationship. Link sharing and the like.

And then there are the people who used to rest in that role--those worthy of my attentions, real-life pals. Of the nine of us that there were, four are my Facebook friends, three of whom lead quiet social lives and I'm not really connected to. Three have disappeared completely from all aspects of digital life--one of whom I know is on the other side of the line, all I have to do is call it and she'll be there. And one has ignored my request years ago, and my fresh request of a few months ago.

She may not be online, but I do know that she's gotten married in the mean time, and had a child. I know this because I'm friends with her cousin who posts photos and other stuff that is available to friends to view. And her profile picture has changed at least twice since I've emailed her.

Was I not one of nine like I thought I had been? Wasn't I? Didn't I belong to the group, an active participant in every-member support, encouragement, and academic bravery? (Of the nine, three maintained the highest possible GPA--she and I making up two of those.)

All I can think of is my abrupt departure--swiftly and entirely erased from the environment. The last day of Junior year is the last day I saw any of the nine, and the first day of  the vast silence before social networking.


What happened that day that was my last, or that year they could continue to bond or unbind without me? What happened to me, or to her, that we can't even exchange aloof pleasantries and allow each other to see polished and carefully chosen details of ourselves? Or at least email addresses so we can catch up?

Hence, I find I have been rejected.

Dear Diary,

I am back to words.

1. I have caught up on all but four of the webcomics I read.
2. I have looked up writing competitions.
3. I have sketched out plotlines.
4. I went to the book give-away
• gathered transparencies and math books
• stocked up on "reading lists for schoolchildren" titles
• expanded my Newberry and Caldecott Award-winning or honor book library
5. I am reading
• I have finished Still Life with Woodpecker  and 29 Gifts
• I am reading The Illiad with my high school student.
• I am reading Sons of Fortune and Thin Skin
6. I am teaching English, and learning some details of the structure of Korean language.
• I can write "Seoul" and "South Korea" and "Wan" in Korean, though I can't pronounce them.
7. I just signed up for Camp Nanowrimo. There are two--one in July and one in August. Both of those months have 31 days instead of 30, which means 1,613 words a day--fifty-four fewer than in November.

So. Maybe I'll write more in my fancy beautiful diary and insert the fun parts here. I wouldn't get my hopes up, though.

Dear Diary,

A great weight has been lifted. If only the rest would ease up.

It has been a difficult year. The things that could happen have been settling around my shoulders in the form of a constant crick in the neck. I love my friends, and I would do anything for them, including bear their stresses. The empathy gene keeps me from having many friends because I have to truly and entirely love you to keep you close, and I can't just do that for anybody. This came from my sister being my best friend since the day she was born (possibly sooner, but I'm being general as I can't actually remember). It became normal to love one's friend unconditionally.

Here is no timeline, just five families struggling.

Two families have had miscarriages in the past year. I have been there, cried for me and cried for them and cried for three babies--all potentially first children--that I will never know.

Two families have had unjust charges brought against them by the same policing entity. From kidnapping to domestic abuse, only the stress and uncertainty of a trial could weed out what happened from what didn't happen for each of these. Both fathers were given probation- beautiful for the families- for crimes they did indeed commit, which are minor in both cases. The justice system, however flawed, works well enough I can keep my faith in it.

Two families will move away from me in the next year, maybe three. After watching three friends leave already, and making only three since, I am slow to keep up.

One family has broken down completely, needing care and supervision and trust and patience.

Five families, none of them mine. If I had compartments, I'd use them. Instead, my body revolts with headaches and nausea that last for days, and other remnants of shock and shot nerves. When I count my blessings, I am only reminded of those things I have that others don't. Do I have survivor's guilt?

It seems most suspense has truly ended, and next is a series of starts, whether I start helping friends pack, or start knitting another baby hat, or start homeschooling another student, I hope I find in these starts a remarkable lack of this guilt, if that is what it is.

Dear Diary,

 We managed to get the rest of the house finished up and emptied today. I expected to help load the furniture but the girls seemed not to need my help. I went back and canceled the newspaper while the boys (my uncle, my cousin, and my other cousin's husband) disassembled the carport. When I discovered my uncle's back and my cousin's COPD brought them inside leaving my cousin-in-law out in the cold by himself, I passed the last cancellation job over to my sister (who had brought me coffee and donuts) and went out to help.