The Garden of Lights and the Power of Subject Matter

Today Ryan Somma and I drove up to Norfolk, Virginia and had a day full of ideals and sentiment and Christmas spirit. We started off visiting the American Chronicles: The Art of Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Chrysler Musuem. Next we caught a showing of “It’s a Wonderful Life” at the Naro Cinema (I had actually never seen that film before!). We had supper and then the grand finale– Driving through the “Garden of Lights” at the Norfolk Botanical Garden.

I’m on a Christmas Light streak! In 2006, I toured lights in Wichita, Kansas. In 2007, I got to see Ritzy’s Fantasy of Lights in Evansville, Indiana. There were some surprising similarities, particularly the Christmas Dragon.

So for 2008 in Norfolk, Virginia, I expected to see more of the same and it appeared that way as we inched by familiar looking lollipops, snowflakes and candycanes waiting to enter the park.

Candycanes, Lollypops and Gingerbread Men

But once we paid our entrance fee, there was a definite theme to the lights:

NATURE!

I had figured the “Garden” in “Garden of Lights” was simply a reference to the locale. But it truly was a Garden of Lights! They had trees, apples, spiderwebs, caterpillars, pumpkins, daisies, butterflies, tulips, roses, fall leaves, mushrooms. They even had a waterfall and a nice little lighted river.

A Netherlands section? Tulips and Windmills!

Nature: Flower, Caterpillar, Mushroom, Butterfly, Flower

Hummingbird!

Pumpkins and behind it– a very giant spiderweb

A Waterfall and a Creek Comprised of Lights (plus some corn)

The summer of 1988, my father and I played in a Regional Bridge Tournament up in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. While we competed, my mother and my two siblings went site-seeing. One day they went to this awesome wax musuem. Both my brother and my sister raved about how cool it was and all the historic characters depicted in the museum. They got to see that and I was stuck looking at the same set of 52 cards for 8 hours. I was soooooo jealous. (Note: During my bridge career I also found myself jealous of the caddies who got to sit around and shoot rubberbands at each other all day, so it really didn’t take all that much to spark my envy).

I probably pestered my partner (a.k.a Dad) relentlessly about poor me and how deprived I was because I missed out on the wax museum. I say this because at the very next bridge tournament, my father promptly found a wax museum and took me to it. So just like the Baby Cry and Dry incident in the early eighties when Santa forget what I wanted, my Daddy was the hero, right?

Well….this tournament was in Nashville, Tennessee and instead of familiar founding fathers, Dad and I got to look at likenesses of Country Music stars. Country Music, a genre I would not really be exposed to for 20 more years when I developed a fondness for Taylor Swift. So the only person I recognized in the entire museum was…Dolly Parton. Looking at wax strangers wasn’t all that fun.

I was thirteen years old at the time and my conclusion from that experience was:

Subject matter makes a difference in wax museums.

Tonight I am two decades wiser and I have a corollary. I believe subject matter makes a difference in Christmas lights as well. Don’t get me wrong– I definitely enjoyed the lights in Wichita and Evansville.

But I really, really, really, enjoyed the lights in Norfolk.

And more picture of those lights can be found on my Flickr site.

Homeless Henry?

When I was learning how to drive, my father had a series of extra tests besides the two issued by the Department of Motor Vehicles. At our house, you also had to get certified for I-95. That wasn’t too bad. The toughest part was merging on the Interstate while Dad yelled at you. The “driving in icy conditions” certification was actually quite fun. Dad took us to an empty parking lot and had us try out emergency stops to get a feel for what the vehicle would do on ice. The one trial I despised was pursuing my Sawyer Suburban certification. There, you had to drive Dad’s giant, white, diesel-fueled suburban and he made you do stuff like back between cones and parallel park. Almost two decades later, I still have trouble parallel parking my tiny, baby, XTerra, especially when there is an audience. I don’t know how I ever managed to parallel park the suburban to Dad’s satisfaction.

Anyway, I never have to worry about my dogs driving, but I did subject the dogs to a certification process of their own when it came to camping. A number of years ago, I set up the tent up on my deck, rounded up the dogs and gave it a go. Jimmie curled up at my feet and went to sleep. Henry, on the other hand, spent the entire evening bellowing out aroos at any sound. I had no idea how “noisy” my neighborhood was at night until Henry was on full alert. Without him, I would have been blissfully unaware of twigs snapping, crickets and dogs barking off in a distance.

Here were the final results of the Dog Camping Certification:

Candidate	Score
Jimmie	A++
Henry	FAIL!!!!

Henry failed with such distinction that I have never even given him a second chance.

Ever since then, every camping trip– Henry is always left behind with a sitter. This weekend though, I have a dilemma. I’m going backpacking at Mount Rogers. And…I have yet to successfully secure a dog sitter for Henry. Everyone is busy! Out of town obligations, golf trips, surgeries. One sitter can’t because his dog is having puppies. It’s a perfect storm.

Who wouldn’t want to watch this cute little fellow?

Aww… don’t you want to watch him?

He wants to cuddle with you.

And look at how cute he was at a puppy!

(Note: If you are actually considering it, please ignore this post and this post and this post and this post and this post and this post and oh yeah, this post, too)

We’ll see if I scrounge up a sucker Samaritan. As much as it will pain my eardrums, I may have to… take him with me.

The Peace Eagle

My favorite bird really didn’t do much to earn its title. It’s the chickadee and the only reason it was propelled to the top was because it was my maternal grandmother’s favorite bird. Sure they are cute, but I really did not embrace them until 2000 when my grandmother died. After that, anytime I saw a chickadee I was reminded of her and it made me smile. And from there my love of those little birds with the black caps grew.

BUT– my second favorite bird earned its right on its own volition. And, unlike the chickadee, I think it’s a less traditional candidate. It’s the turkey vulture or, as I indiscriminately call them and black vultures, buzzards. I ran into a few yesterday as I drove to Deerfield Bike Path for a walk.

Three “buzzards” just hanging out – the two on the left are actually black vultures and the one on the right is a turkey vulture.

I love these birds. A buzzard’s floating silhouette was a near constant fixture in sky when I was a child. They always looked so tranquil. Now whenever I see a buzzard above, I feel closer to my family and closer to home.

Turkey Vulture (Photo by Ms. Kathleen)

On the subject of childhood, buzzards evoke a memory that still makes me smile. One day my father was especially displeased with my younger brother. I was out in the yard with a gruff Dad, and he noted a group of buzzards circling above us.

“They know I’m about to kill Jay,” he said.

Painting by my brother, who was not in fact devoured by buzzards.

Buzzards are also sentimental to me on the emetophobia front. In winter 2002, I was visiting my parents and had a horrible bout of anxiety and appetite loss. One morning my father asked if I wanted to go to breakfast. To me, that was a terrifying request (and not because he suggested McDonald’s).

“I don’t know,” I said with tears in my eyes, “What if I get there and I’m not hungry?”

My father was not phased by this obstacle in the least. “Well, then we bring it home and feed it to the dogs!”

Sounded easy enough. I got in the car and went with my father to McDonald’s. I cautiously ate a few bites of a Yogurt Parfait before my fearful esophagus would swallow no more.

On our way back, Dad got enthusiastic, “Oh Vicky, you’ve GOT to see this!”

He took a few turns and suddenly we were at a townhouse development. Typical to Northern Virginia architecture, all the houses looked exactly the same. But then there was one house in the row that stood out. The roof was COVERED with buzzards… and subsequently had its fair share of buzzard crap as well.

“There are here every morning,” Dad said, “And then after lunch, they go and fly across the river.”

We laughed and pointed and laughed some more. We speculated. What was it about that ONE townhouse that made it such an appealing roost? How come they didn’t sit on any of the adjacent townhouses? Did they used to have a tree in the same spot? Do the owners of the house know they have visitors while they are away?

Eventually, we returned back to the car where the yogurt was waiting in the cup holder. I was now relaxed and happy and as we drove back to the house and continued to marvel about buzzards, I finished every bit of my breakfast.

The root of my worries that day was a fear of vomit. And here a bird whose defense mechanism is to vomit on its threats was my salvation.

Vicky’s unlikely hero (Photo by Vicki and Chuck Rogers)

“Turkey vulture” and “buzzard” aren’t exactly appealing terms. The scientific name is a little better– Cathartes aura where cathartes means “purifier”. But I think the Cherokees came up with the best name. They call the birds “Peace Eagles” because buzzards don’t kill to eat. They simply recycle.

From my perspective, “Peace Eagle” is the perfect name! When I see a buzzard gliding around in the sky, “peaceful” is definitely a word I would use to describe their flight. Their ability to make me think of my family and feel as if I were home again brings along a sense of ease, a feeling of peace. And one day way back in 2002 when even a meal was a scary notion, it was a group of buzzards who brought me the most important type of peace.

Peace from one’s own mind.

Gwyn vs. the Volcano

I was cleaning off one of my SanDisk cards for my camera and I ran across some pictures I never processed. These are from February 22nd, when Ann, Larry, Sean and I took Penn and Gwyn to Kabuki for supper.

For the most part, the evening progressed normally. The kids oohed and ahhed at the fish tank while we waited for a table and after that they oohed and ahhed at the chef preparing the meal. Then it came time for the ONION VOLCANO!!!

Both children lean in with great expectations:

Let’s take a closer look at Gwyn’s face:

Gwyn excited about the volcano

BUT… when the volcano was actually lit, Gwyn was no longer happy:

And let’s take a closer look at that face:

Terrified Gwyn

Once the terror subsided, she watched the flames with worry:

Gwyn worried

Finally she just covered her eyes:

Know what the best part about the picture above is? That kid in the background (a stranger) is laughing at her!

Sympathetic Stranger

And in the end, it was Mama to the rescue:

Ann consoles Gwyn. Brother doesn’t look so concerned, does he?

Rock Star Party

Last week while I was at my parent’s house, I received a text message from my sister.

wanna go to a rock star party on saturday?

In other words, a party where we were supposed to dress up as rock stars. Sounded fun, but I barely had an ample supply of underwear on hand, let alone “rock star garb.”

So what do you do if you are out of town, have limited items in your suitcase and you suddenly get invited to a Rock Star Party?

Raid your parents’ closet, of course!

I have a father who goes to goth clubs and a mother with much better footwear taste than I. The two of them supplied some key components to my outfit. Unfortunately I don’t have a picture of the full assemble, but I do have a pen and a scanner, so here is a drawing:

Vicky is only hip because of her parents

Sadly, I have to admit that even if I were home with full access to my own closet, my concoction would have been lame. I rode the coattails of coolness… of… my… parents!!!

And so, I will close this post humming along to NOFX’s “What’s the Matter With with Parents Today?” from their Pump Up The Valuum album (not Heavy Petting Zoo like some lameos think):

Mom and dad
How’d you get so rad?
When exactly did you get so hip?
…

Vicky’s Valentine’s Day Dinner

You learn something new every day. Yesterday I learned how spoiled I am when it comes to Valentine’s Day.

The past eleven years, I’ve had Sean. In high school, as soon as I acquired my first boyfriend I was pretty much never without that key accessory until graduation. In college I went for periods without dating, but I don’t remember any Valentine’s Day traumas.

So each year as the flurry of comments circulated about how Valentine’s Day is just a marketing ploy and how it is really Single Awareness Day and blah blah blah, I paid little note. It didn’t affect ME, after all. I still got to eat candy!

Well this year I’m at my parent’s house. Late yesterday afternoon I was working on my laptop. I was trying to get stupid SQL Server 2000 to truncate a stupid transaction log that I had stupidly let grow to 4 gigs with some impressive negligence (Finally was able to do it by changing the database’s recovery mode to “Simple”, backing up the database and then running DBCC ShrinkFile on it). With all my struggles, I figured some reheated lentil soup was my evening destiny. Then my mother called from a local restaurant where she was was meeting friends with an amazing deal!!! Two lobster & prime rib dinners for 19.99!!!

AWESOME! I love lobster! I was totally in!!! And who loves a great deal? My father… and I have tons of tales (many of them involving movie theaters and/or senior citizen discounts) to prove it.

With my mother still on the phone, I ran upstairs and went to wake up my father. I don’t think I could have hidden my enthusiasm if I tried.

“DAD! DAD! GET UP!!!! BRITTANY’S HAS A DEAL– TWO PRIME RIBS AND TWO LOBSTER TAILS FOR TWENTY DOLLARS!!!!!”

And as my giddy voice roused my deal-loving father from his slumber, the background processes of my mind worked through some simple addition.

1 + 1 + 1 ….

My dad leapt out of bed and was instantly ready to eat. And suddenly my mind alerted me to its calculation.

I gasped, “I have no one to share with!!! Who am I going to share with?!?!”

It was at that moment, I could commiserate with what all the single people have complained about for years. I was left out. I was going to be deprived cheap lobster… all because I was alone!??!

(It really took the lobster to open my eyes, I don’t think any other dish would have produced such soul-searching)

“Ruth Norman and I are sharing,” my mother said, “So you’re eating with your father.”

Booyah! Problem solved.

So me and my date, a.k.a Dad, headed over to the restaurant. There is another great deal at Brittany’s on Thursday nights. All you can eat roast beef for $2. My dad instantly got a plate to munch on while we waited.

It was so romantic. Red table clothes, white candles… and my Dad shoveling dirt cheap roast beef in his mouth, occasionally making slurping noises with the au jus.

Now if you are a diligent reader, you may remember I gave up red meat for Lent. My plan was to give my father my prime rib. But when the waitress arrived my father started to explain Lent and asked if I could get another lobster tail instead of prime rib.

“Dad, I doubt they can do that. It’s not fair.” I said, mostly to show the waitress that dissent with Dad was okay.

“I’m not sure. I’ll ask,” she said and disappeared in the back.

She returned shortly with drinks. As she started to hand out beverages to some of my mother’s friends, my charming date started to bark, “I got a Pepsi! Pepsi! Over here!”

And sure enough, thanks to the beauty of competence, our waitress happened to have a Pepsi on her tray allocated just for my father.

“The manager says ‘Okay’” she reported and gave Dad his coveted drink.

“Oh wow. Okay, I’ll do that,” I said.

“ME TOO!” Dad quickly added.

The waitress gave Dad a perplexed look, but left to place our order for four lobster tails.

When she was out of earshot, I poked fun at my father for exploiting the system.

“WHAT?” his eyebrows crinkled up innocently, “You gave up red meat for Lent, maybe I did too.”

“You’re eating roast beef.”

Dad looked at his plate and started to laugh, “Well, maybe I gave up prime rib for Lent!”

I am not sure if the waitress would buy that, but nonetheless she delivered us:

-Four lobster tails
-Two servings of delicious mashed potatoes
-Two servings of yummy roasted vegetables
-Two slices of cheesecake with strawberry topping
-And a red carnation for me!

Add that to all the laughter I had watching my father, and what a bargain!  Dinner and entertainment for just $19.99.

Noble Trashmen

My father found a passion early in life– cutting wood.  Being a practical minded boy (also demonstrated by the fact he requested a sledgehammer and chisel for his Christmas present), little Lowell had a fall back plan.  Here’s an excerpt from a family history written by my paternal grandfather, G.I. Sawyer:

By the time he was six [Lowell] … developed an extreme interest in sawing and cutting logs. … As soon as he was able to handle this cutting tool, he spent a great deal of time sawing and splitting logs which he collected in the nearby Rock Creek Park. For his 194[9?] Christmas present, he requested a sledge hammer and chisels, which he later found under the Christmas tree.

A year later, Lowell, who had a difficult time learning Latin as an altar boy, inquired of his parents if he had to study Latin to become a woodsman. When he was told that most trees are identified by Latin names in horticulture, he immediately asked, “Does one have to learn Latin to become a trashman?” Thus, Lowell showed his second aspiration in the event he failed to become a log cutter.

As a teenager, I found my father’s second aspiration as a “trashman” to be downright hilarious and I made no secret of my amusement.  Once, my father defended his dream and told me that the job title in his day meant something different. 

“It was more like a junk collector,” he said which served only to fuel my laughter more.

Despite my father’s best efforts, he failed to convince my young mind that trashman was a noble profession.  And now at 32 years of age, I can see just how admirable it is. 

In 1999, Ken Noguchi climbed Mount Everest and was surprised to find the elusive peak covered with liter.  Since then, he has been organizating clean-up expeditions on Everest.  In 2001, his group brought down 1.6 tons of waste including 84 empty oxygen bottles and 50 tents.  His latest expedition brought down 1,100 pounds of garbage.

Noguchi’s work makes me smile and it makes me realize.  Perhaps my father wasn’t such a silly little boy afterall.

Vicky’s First Motorcycle Ride

My father’s aspiration to ride the Appalachian Trail on his Harley isn’t the only motorcycle judgement of his I find questionable. 

In October of 2003, my father took me out on his ride on his new motorcycle.  As I sat behind him and tightened a tricky helmet, I thought about how I was about to embark on my very first motorcycle ride.  Or so I thought.

“Is this the first time you’ve been on a motorcycle since 1977?” my father asked.

“1977?” I said - it would not have been surprising if he got years confused.

“Yeah,” he said, “I took you out for a ride.”

“You did?!?  In 1977?”

At this point he was starting to get irritated.  “Yes!  1977!”

“But…. I was two!”

Apparently, my statement didn’t strike him as odd.  He didn’t respond.  So I had to inquire further, “How could I ride that young?” 

“Well, I told you to hold on and you did!”  My father was fully irritated now.  He started the engine and barked, “Hold On!”

And just like 1977, I did. 

My friend, Ann, reports that she also rode a motorcycle at a very young age and also during 1977.  I know about disco, pet rocks, mood rings and bell bottoms.  Was totting toddlers around on motorcycles just another fad of the 70s? 

Driving the Appalachian Trail

When I first told my father about the Appalachian Trail, his response took me offguard.

“Boy, I sure would like to ride my motorcycle on that.”

Once I got over that shock, I explained to him that it was a footpath and that it was very rocky and not designed with motorcycles in mind and, in fact, motorcycles were prohibited.

That didn’t bother my father.  He countered by telling me how when he was young, he used to ride his motorcycle everyday through the woods in Rock Creek Park as a shortcut for his D.C. commute (Apparently that particular habit came to an abrupt end one day when my father was driving through the woods and found an authority there waiting for him).

I think my father has dropped the matter– I haven’t heard him say anything on the subject for years.  If the aspiration should resurface, however, perhaps he can follow in the footsteps of this particular enthusiast.  Here’s a 2001 article from the Washington Post where Peter Mandel talks about his unique AT adventure.  He followed the nearby roads and visited the trail crossings…in his Geo Prizm!

Driving the Appalachian Trail

Jimmie and Henry- On the Road to Geocaching Celebrity?

When I was twelve, I started playing contract bridge with my father.  That following March my father took me to my first National Tournament.  His thought was that it would be a fun trip and I would get some experience under my belt.  He didn’t have any expectations of winning.  Well it turned out he and I won the opening event of the tournament!  And fifteen minutes later, the clock struck midnight and I turned thirteen years old. 

Dad and I after winning the Charity Pairs at the Buffalo North American Bridge Championships

In duplicate bridge, the demographic of the competitors is very heavy in the senior citizen range.  To put it in perspective, USA Today reported in 2005 that the average age of American Contract Bridge League players is 67!  My father, with his prematurely white hair, blended right in.  But it is safe to say a little twelve year old girl stuck out in the crowd.  I was instantly recognizable. 

My father played bridge for 20 years before I ever realized “Notrump” was something other than the name of our dog.  If I had been a novice playing with a novice, I doubt I would have had any success.  But I was a novice playing with an aggressive bidder and a talented declarer with a fondness for No Trump contracts.  My father was the reason for my success.  Yet, even with all his experience and exposure, he often found himself in the backstage role of “Vicky’s Dad.”  People would approach us because they recognized the little girl, not the man.  And even though I haven’t played a physical game of bridge in about eight years, my father still reports being approached by strangers asking about me and how I am doing. 

I guess what goes around comes around!  Now it’s me playing the tag-along role!  Twice recently, I was contacted by geocachers who recognized not me, the one who actually holds and interprets the GPS, but Jimmie and Henry from my profile picture! 

 
Geocaching profile picture– Henry, Me and Jimmie at War Spur near Mountain Lake

One group of cachers recognized us coming down the Blacksburg’s Gateway Trail to Heritage Park.  Meanwhile another cacher spotted a limping beagle at a trailhead in Catawba and thoughtfully contacted me to make sure Henry was accounted for (he was).  I bet I could have matched my father’s “pre-Vicky” bridge career of 20 years without drawing much notice.  But apparently, the two dogs stick out.

My father never minded the extra attention I brought to the bridge table.  And you know what?  I really can’t say I mind that it is the dogs who are drawing the second glances.

Actually, it’s sorta neat.