So I had this trailer...

This trailer meant a lot to me.  It was built in 1992 and I bought it used in 2002.  I just brought it home.  I didn't consult the husband.  I just did it.  The kids and I enjoyed our trailer for the next 8 (or so) years.  We camped out in it in the back yard.  We hauled it to BattleGround lake on a regular basis.  We took it to the coast.  We dragged friends along for the good times.  We huddled in it playing games during rainy icky camping trips.  

This trailer represented so many good things and so many good times.  I brought it to Lynden in 2011.  It has sat in the barn for the last three years being used as storage.  Peter and I never took it out.  Never used it.  

It was time to let it go.  I considered selling it but I couldn't.  How could I sell it?  Not only is a 22 year old trailer worth almost nothing, I was emotionally attached to the stupid thing.  I'm weird I know.  I will always have the memories no matter what happens to the trailer.

Fortunately my son offered to take it off my hands.  Now that he has a baby, camping in a trailer will be way better than a tent.  THIS I thought was the perfect solution.

We tried to take the trailer to him in February but an unexpected snow storm hit the morning we were to leave and I refused to take it out in the storm.  This weekend was snow and ice free and off we went.  But first the freighbor gifted me with an old mattress we could use to build a "real bed" in the trailer - instead of sleeping on a lumpy, bumpy, poor excuse for a bed that trailer manufacturer's think fits two people.

The plan was to get one last trip in, on our way to Kyle's house, stay in the trailer for the weekend and then leave it with him.  On Thursday we set out for Lincoln City.  The rain poured, the wind buffeted us about. It was awful weather but we made it safely to our destination.

The weather was still awful when we got to the campground.  Despite the wet, we parked the trailer and quickly hooked it up to the utilities.  

I plugged in the water hose, turned it on and water poured out the side of the trailer.  Mmm.. that wasn't supposed to happen.  Not wanting to spend more time in the downpour than necessary I quickly decided to just fill the reserve water tank and use it, instead of the direct feed.  Water poured out everywhere.  Obviously something very bad had happened.  We were going to have to bring in water in containers for this trip it seemed and figure out the leak under dryer circumstances.

We finally got inside the trailer only to find the driving rain had been driven into the trailer and soaked our bed.  Completely saturating it in one corner.  All the bedding was wet.  The mattress was wet.    Perhaps three years in the barn had caused seams and joints to dry out.  

We should turn on the heater!  I stripped the bed and hung up the sheets so they could dry. oh wait.  It seemed we were out of propane.

No water, no bed, no heat.  Oh well - Low tide is quickly approaching and agates are calling to Peter.  We could take care of these other issues later, tides don't care.  I just wasn't up to agate hunting in pouring rain so Peter geared up and went without me while I poked around a few shops, drank some wine and enjoyed the beauty of the Oregon coast.  He eventually sent me a text message that said he was on his way back and safely over the dangerous part of the rocks.  When I picked him up he confessed that he wasn't ENTIRELY over the dangerous part when he sent the text and, in fact, had fallen just after hitting the send button.  He was very banged up, but nothing was broken.

Things weren't going too well.  Perhaps giving away the trailer wasn't going to be so hard after all.

Heat issues addressed, we covered the wet mattress with a plastic table cloth, pulled out a couple sleeping bags and settled in for the night.  The first problem was that the mattress was squished into the space at the end by our feet, and flopping down off the edge on the other end.  Peter slept on the inside and I on the outside, propping myself up against the kitchen wall to keep from sliding out of bed.  Peter was restless because of his injuries (possibly a torn rotator cuff or some other pinched nerve, torn muscle issue) which caused us to look at the clock every 20 minutes it seemed.  About 3:00 in the morning I propped a suitcase under the edge of the mattress which gave me the luxury of not sliding out of bed. Unfortunately, it made me roll toward Peter - who wasn't in the mood to be touched or jostled in any way.  The second problem was that water continued to drip.  Mostly on Peter.  It was a very long night.  By morning I was ready for a cup of coffee. Oh. Wait.  Forgot to pack the coffee.

Friday we abandoned our plans to linger on the coast and took the trailer to Kyle's house.  We parked it and tarped it.  We had dinner with friends, we bought coffee.  We started the night with the suitcase under the bed.  The night was better, it was dry and warm.  Saturday Peter went off to his seminar and I spent the day with my son and grandson.

Then Saturday night happened.  Peter's injuries had reached the apex of discomfort. Swelling was maximized, soreness and pain had grown.  Getting comfortable in a 19 foot trailer wasn't possible.  He was up.  He was down.  He tried to sleep in the car.  He walked the neighborhood.  He was down.  He was up.  Back to the car.  Back to wandering the neighborhood.  He did not sleep.  I got the bed mostly to myself.  That bed was very comfortable!   

It was finally morning and we were able to be on our way.  I packed up our things and said farewell to my trailer.  

Despite the very rocky trip and miserable three nights we had just spent in it, despite the leaking and the water problems and the bed issues, despite the fact that it was not being sold to a stranger but given to my son I could not help but shed a tear.

Oh baby blanket!

The last weekend in August, Elaine, a friend from Salem, came up and joined us for a whale watching excursion in the Salish Sea. It was a wonderful day at sea and we spotted humpback and minky whales.  Peter had to break the rules which nearly caused my head to explode  (I'm a great stickler for rules!) but I did get photographic evidence to black mail him with should the need arise in the future.

During Elaine's visit she became quite intrigued by my loom. Around our sight seeing adventures (Downtown Lynden, Fort Langley) she made a small weaving project.  She had never used a loom before so I tried to guide her in a simple project that could be done in the few hours she had.  Needless to say, things didn't go perfectly.  But as I was trying to show her all the steps in the process I figured out a lot of things that were giving me trouble.  After a few mis-steps (mostly caused by my inattention or misinformation) she ended up with a nice strip of woven fabric in a yellow and blue plaid.

I ended up inspired.

With inspiration swirling around me and a grandson on the way I thought it was a good time to try weaving something special for him.  I planned and plotted and started setting up the loom.

I know.. boring.

But it got more interesting..

After nearly a week of running back and forth to the warping board and the loom.  After threading more than 200 all-cotton strings through heddles and reeds.  After numerous bottles of beer and in the midst of an awful, snotty head cold, I finally started weaving:

An hour later I had a blanket.  A little anti-climatic.  I mean a week in prep and then an hour of weaving.  sigh..  I had enough thread left on the loom that I wove in a separation area and continued on to weave a second blanket in a slightly different pattern.   My nephew and his soon-to-be-wife are expecting a baby boy as well.  I'm not sure how much my nephew's baby will need a warm cotton blanket (they live in Florida after all) but it's the thought that counts.. right?

Today I finished the detail on the blankets:

My grandson Jack's baby blanket

My great nephew Jake's baby blanket

I had to go to the fabric store today to purchase the blanket binding and got further inspired by cute little fleece hats and home made booties and big fabric letters that can spell out words and names.  It all confirms my theory that I need to become independently wealthy so that I not only don't have to work - but I can hire someone to do all the things I don't like to do (like dishes and laundry and vacuuming and dusting and cleaning up cat yack) so that I can spend my time just doing the things I WANT to do.  

Call me Beppe

Beppe.  Pronounced: "Beh-peh."   
Peter can be Pake.  Pronounced:  "Pa-keh."

Those are Frisian words.  I'm not Frisian but Peter and his family are.  Since I'm adopted and my background could be anything I COULD be Frisian and just don't know it.  That means that using Frisian words are perfectly acceptable (she says rationalizing..).

It's not that I'm vain like some women and insist their grandchildren call them by the first names and they go around denying they are old enough to have grandchildren.  That's not the reason I'm resisting being called Grandma.  I never really knew my grandparents and have had very few occasions to use the terms Grandma and Grandpa.  Those terms to me represent people that love you, but live a long way away.  My mother was called Grammy and I kind of feel like that name should still refer to her, not me.  I had cousins that had a "Meemaw" and I know other people that had an Oma and Opa.  To me these names just sound so much cozier and welcoming.  I think Beppe is a fine term for my not-too-distant future self.

An ultrasound today confirmed that the big event should be early November.  I'm very happy for my son and his wife.   I read something the other day that was quite moving.  I did not write it and I do not know who did but it seems relevant to my feelings.  For both my son and daughter-in-law I share these words:

We are sitting at lunch one day when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of “starting a family.” “We’re taking a survey,” she says half-joking. “Do you think I should have a baby?”

… “It will change your life,” I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.

“I know,” she says, “no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations.”

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes.

I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking, “What if that had been MY child?” That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her.

That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of “Mum!” will cause her to drop a soufflé or her best crystal without a moments hesitation.

I feel that I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting and she will think of her baby’s sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

I want my daughter to know that every day decisions will no longer be routine. That a five year old boy’s desire to go to the men’s room rather than the women’s at McDonald’s will become a major dilemma. That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.

However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself.

That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor.

My daughter’s relationship with her husband will change, but not in the way she thinks.

I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his child.

I think she should know that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving.

I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike.

I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time.

I want her to taste the joy that is so real it actually hurts.

My daughter’s quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. “You’ll never regret it,” I finally say. Then I reached across the table, squeezed my daughter’s hand and offered a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.