How many televisions do you own and in what rooms are they sitting? This report is revealing:

http://www.kff.org/entmedia/entmedia052406nr.cfm

Biking Follow-up: Mom with Four Fellow Travelers

So I finish the previous blog and think, "I really do need to run those errands." To avoid hypocrisy, I decide to do so on my bike. At first, I planned to go alone, which would have been preferable and infinitely more efficient. But what with one thing and another, it evolved into my taking along the preschooler in the Burley trailer. This wasn't too big of a problem; as a matter of fact, the extra cargo space in the back was a bit of an advantage. Well, then another of the kids wanted to go along, and then I lost my babysitting situation. In the end, all four children tagged along.

One adult with a trailer followed by three children on bikes stands out, like a small carnival train putzing alongside the roar of traffic. Don't panic, now, we weren't actually in traffic. We stayed on the bike path most of the way. However, with all those evolutions involved with who would be going on the ride, we got a late start--after pumping up tires and pulling down helmets and kids finding shoes, we left about an hour later than I would have taken off on my own. The delayed departure changed the timing, and we ended up passing through a private school's carpool line, dodging all those anxious moms and dads in their minivans waiting to turn and get in line, worried about being late. A few smiled at our little caravan--I may have resembled a mama duck with her ducklings diligently following behind. A few scowled, especially if we caused them to miss a good left-turn opportunity.

Later, when we were nearing the library, we got caught in the bustle of buses and cars just as an extra-large, super-sized high school let out. Zoom! swish! Those high school kids didn't give a hoot about a woman on a bike with a trailer. Who cares if I was actually walking it across at an intersection with a green walk signal--those teenage drivers (and buses, too) were ready to roll. I was alarmed. I frowned at a bus driver and even shook my finger at one young driver of a snazzy sports car and pointed at the light. Her window was down, so like a cranky old woman, I called out, "I'm a pedestrian! Look, I have the light!" I practically shook my finger at her. She ignored me and I could have sworn she turned up her music.

I completed the library errand with adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream, pulsing, heightening all senses. Then we dropped by a convenient video rental store for two movies the kids had their hearts set on. Being the holiday weekend and all, our selections were checked out by others. Ugh. A wasted errand with nothing to show for our sidetrip.

Back to the bike trail, we headed for the destination they were all waiting for: Target.

Oh, no, the boy in the trailer has to go to the bathroom. It's urgent. We're on a bike trail, but cars are zipping alongside us on the road. I feel tense. During the entire hour that has passed, I've mustered up brain-boggling, intense focus that is wearing on me, and all we have actually done is drop off a library book. I give up. Global warming, shlobal warming, I'm strapping my four into the van.

My cell phone rings: it's my bicycle-to-work spouse. "Hey, I just wanted you to know I'm about to get on the road," he says.

"Great, well," I respond, "there are a bunch of crazies out. It's not that quiet ride you had on the way to work this morning. Watch out. They'll run you down."

"Oh?" he can hear the tenseness. "Okay. I'll be careful."

"I'm telling you, they will--" I separate the next words for emphasis, "run...you...down. They are so excited to be out of school or out of work for the weekend, they don't give a rip about a guy on a bike. They just want to get home and grill their brats, man."

"Thanks for the warning. I'll watch out."

My ducklings and I stop by the house to drop off our bikes and let the little one do his business. I grab my purse, jump in the van, click in anyone who needs clicking, and head to Target. As I pull onto the main road of our neighborhood, I feel my blood pressure dropping. I'm relaxing. How can that be? I hate to shop. Well, everyone is quietly staring out the windows. We are no longer the smallest, most vulnerable vehicles on the road. I realize that I like sitting high in a minivan. We are surrounded by airbags that could deploy at the slightest impact. This is good, I think. This is worth the extra few bucks in gas money.

At Target, we find everything we're looking for. We happily swing by the grocery and get the movies that were unavailable at that video store, grab a loaf of fresh bread and head home.

We roll down the windows and feel the breeze. I roll slowly through the subdivision, pondering the pool, which should open tomorrow for a chilly start to the swimming season. We carry in our bags and eat a piece of still-warm baguette. I spread mine with boursin and make a bit of tea. Just as I take a bite, my husband pokes his head in the back door. "I'm back!" he calls out.

"You're safe," I say, sighing a little.

"Yep." We kiss. "Boursin?" he says, licking his lips and grinning.

"Yep."

"Yum!"

He's hungry after riding against the wind for an hour, so he tears off slices of bread and forks down two servings of spaghetti with sauce, then is lulled to sleep by heavy doses of carbohydrates. He nods off as I read to the children from A Wrinkle in Time. He doesn't even wake up when the man with red eyes hypnotizes Charles Wallace, or when Meg shouts, "No, no, no!" We wake him up for cleanup time.

"Do you think you'll ride to work often?" I ask, while scraping my plate.

"Yes," he responds. "I just need to remember my belt."

"I need to figure out how to run errands alone," I mumble, but he doesn't hear me. He's nodding off. The kids giggle.

A few minutes later, one of the kids comes up to me and announces, "Today was a glorious day. Everything about it--it's beautiful and peaceful. I loved it."

And so like an old softy--my will weakened by all that bread--I think to myself, "I'll take them along again. It's worth it."

National Bike Month

Although it's almost over, May is National Bike Month. I thought today was Bike-to-Work day, but I think I was off by a week. Nevertheless, my spouse decided to ride today, first time ever. He forgot a couple of key items, including his belt, but otherwise the trip itself went smoothly.

He learned a few things that I pass on to bicyclists and drivers who care:

* When a bicyclist is riding along the side of the road near the shoulder, don't "slip past." The rider is not a mailbox--if you hit him with any part of your car, even your rearview mirror, he will probably sustain more than a dent.

* Bicyclists are advised to ride in the center of the road like a car. Any driver who is following must wait for an opportunity to pass, just as he would if the bike were a car. The cyclist is not trying to frustrate you or make you late; he is following the rules and trying to preserve his life. Please be patient; encourage him for taking a risk--he's helping the environment, too, you know, as well as his health and our fuel budget.

* He took a bike path as far as possible, then a road. It wasn't the fastest route, and even with that handicap, it only took him 15 extra minutes to get to work. If he tries another route, he may be able to make it even faster. Maybe more people would be surprised how fast they could get to work if they just tried it?

* He packed a simple lunch he could tote in the small carrier attached to the back of his bike. That way he wouldn't have to go out for lunch (though his company has a cafeteria, if he needed to eat and forgot to take something).

* Three people from his work live on our side of town--one even lives in our neighborhood--so if a storm blows through at 6:00 p.m. and he can't ride home, he can leave his bike there and catch a ride with one of them. To have alternatives in case of a problem makes it easier to take the risk of being without a car. A less personal option is offered through a city organization trying to promote alternative transportation. The organization guarantees free transportation if you run into a glitch (not a ditch, though that certainly would cause a glitch). This encourages carpooling, too--if your ride bails on you to get to her daughter's piano recital that she forgot about and you're left stranded, this program will call a cab, free of charge. Same with biking to work--if a terrible storm blows up or you get a flat, they'll arrange for safe and free transportation. They really want people to take more risks and every so often try life without a car.

This story covers some of this in a third-person fashion. It also points out that bikes aren't supposed to be on sidewalks; in fact, one guy says it's against the law. One more reason to be understanding of the law-abiding bicyclist slowing you down a bit: he or she is supposed to be on the road.

http://www.intakeweekly.com/articles/3/024451-6023-154.html

Today I need to pick up a few things at the store. I'm so inspired by my spouse and this article (and so depressed about gasoline), I think I'll just ride.

Corn and Chaos

My neighbor came by with an invitation to one of those in-home parties. It's a jewelry party, and she presented the evening like this, "It seems like the guys in the neighborhood get to see each other when they're out in the yard working, but the ladies don't seem to get much time together. I thought this would be a chance for us to get to know each other a little bit."

The feminist in me was a little offended, because I do a fair amount of the yardwork. But the next emotion to hit was guilt because when she moved in, I tried to take her a plate of brownies, but no one was ever home when I dropped by. As far as she knows, I've ignored the fact that she's a newcomer.

Then I recalled the first time she and I officially met. One evening, a fire truck arrived with its sirens wailing at another neighbor's house. Many people gathered at the foot of our driveway to speculate and gape. We had been eating a dinner of hamburgers, rice, and corn on the cob when we heard sirens. Shortly after, some children from a few doors down banged on our door and shrieked, "Fire! Fire! Fire!" We all dropped our hamburgers and corncobs and scrambled out the door. Was our house on fire? Was theirs? I joined the gathering crowd in my front yard. This lady, the one who invited me to the jewelry party, came striding over. "What's going on?"

"We don't know," we answered.

"I'm Cynthia [name changed]," she said, stretching our her hand formally. She was dressed like a professional just back from the office. I was dressed like a mom at the end of a summer day--not at all like a professional, to say the least. "I live in the house on the corner," she continued, looking at me intently.

"I'm Ann," I answered, "And this is my husband. We're glad to finally meet you." When I turned to introduce him, he started motioning to my cheek.

"You've, uh, got something..." he trailed off, making a concerned face while pointing.

I swiped at my cheek. Turns out I had a bright yellow, summer-sized kernel of fresh corn from the cob stuck to my cheek all the while I was meeting this new gal, the professional, well-coiffed, firm-handshake neighbor.

While I remained standing there wondering if there was rice in my hair, too, she got fed up with us gapers. She strode (each time I've seen her she seems so purposeful--it's the best verb) to the scene of the action, found out what was going on, reported back to the befuddled group lingering on my lawn, explaining that the old lady had fallen and hurt her hip, but it was under control so we could all just relax or even go on home.

I've had very little interaction with her since the corn-cheek evening, given that my well-intentioned brownie visits amounted to nothing. We ate the undeliverable brownies ourselves, I must confess.

So now there was this jewelry evening invitation, which happened at the dinner hour. For us it happened to be the soccer-practice-gathering hour; at the last minute my husband phoned and requested I bring our oldest daughter to soccer practice. When the neighbor strode over and rang the doorbell, I was on the phone with someone while motioning to my oldest to round everyone up from the far reaches of the neighborhood. I opened the door a crack, asked my friend on the phone to hold, grabbed the dog by his collar and pushed him back, and said, "Hi!"

She was once more in her professional clothes and heels, her sunglasses slipped on top of her head to push back her full-bodied blond hair.

"Hi, I know this is last minute, and you've got like a million kids running around all the time, but I'm putting together a little gathering for the ladies of the neighborhood. It seems like the guys in the neighborhood..." and then she said that whole thing about the guys and the yardwork. I was hunched over because of the dog, my flat, unstyled, end-of-day hair was tumbling out of its barrette, my foot propped open the storm door, and my phone arm was stretched out so that friend wouldn't be subjected to the noise.

"I'm sorry, could you excuse me," I said as I called out to my youngest. He had begun the quest for his sisters without waiting for his escort (another sister), but the lady overlapped somewhat, still talking about the party. My friend was just waiting on the phone during this hubbub.

"Excuse me," I said, "There goes one of my million kids right now, 'Come back!'" I called to him.

She paused her party spiel and glanced over her shoulder, "Yes, I thought he seemed to be getting far for such a little guy."

Thanks a lot, I thought, You're the one holding me up at the door. But I said, "Heh, heh, well, his babysitting-aged sister is catching up to him. There she goes. Okay, he's all right. They're getting the others--I'm supposed to be at soccer and I've got this friend on the phone. I'm sorry. You were saying?"

She continued in detail about the gathering, the ladies of the neighborhood, maybe I could stop by, the jewelry, it's relaxed and casual, she's going around inviting everyone, hoping we could get to know each other.

The dog was pulling at me and my phone friend was kindly on hold while I was waiting for her to finish up the invite. Could she not see commotion swirling around me like that Calgon woman? Finally she extended an oversized card with the pertinent information printed on it, so I took it and thanked her. "I'm not sure," I muttered, noncommital. "I think I have something, but I'll try." She encouraged me to drop in even if for a few moments. I said I'd like that. She strode away, down the street, over to the next cul-de-sac. I saw my kids turning the corner--so many things to keep track of! I let go of the dog, finished up with my friend on the phone, and glanced at the card while grabbing my keys to go to soccer practice.

I thought to myself later that night that it might be nice to put on something presentable, brush my hair, slap on a little makeup, and show up corn-free. Maybe I should go. In fact, maybe I should take a plate of brownies? On the other hand, now that I've seen all that striding, she doesn't seem like the brownie type...maybe more the wine-and-cheese type.

Dead.com and the Dying Ride

The library flag was flying half-mast today. I explained that flags are flown halfway down the pole to honor someone who has recently passed away. "I wonder who died?" I said. "Maybe someone in the community."

"Maybe you missed something big in the news today," one of my daughters suggested.

"That may be," I said. "I'd better go online and see if I can figure it out."

My preschool son spoke up. "You should go to 'dead.com' and see who died. You just type it in, 'dead.com,' and then up comes the name of whoever just died!"

As we headed home, we passed a cemetery. To my son, who didn't know what it was, I described its purpose briefly and simply. A minute or so later, he said, "I wonder if an angel comes down. Or maybe there's a dying ride, and Jesus slides down it, and then He takes you on it and you ride up, up, up into heaven that way. That would be fun. So maybe it's an angel, or maybe it's a dying ride. I don't know. Just maybe. Because I don't really know how we get to heaven. I was just thinking it might be an angel or a ride, but I don't really know. How do we get to heaven?"

"I don't know," I answered. "No one knows until they're on their way."

"Well, it might be an angel," he said, "or a ride."

"I hope it's a ride," I said.

"Me, too," he replied.

Happy Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day again, the day when my family scrambles to do some chores around the house--things they should be doing anyway. The only difference is that today, I don't have to nag.

Flipping through the May issue of Real Simple magazine, I came across these quotations from some special women: All were over 100 years old! They said much more in the interviews, but for various reasons, these stood out to me:

From Frances Johnson, 100 (p. 207)

"When things happen, they just happen. You move on."

"If it's not terminal, why worry? And if it is, you can't do anything about it."

"Dogs are meant to be spoiled."

"Something good usually comes out of bad events."

"When playing Scrabble, don't use up your S's right away."


From Edna Anderson, 100 (p. 209)

"Avoid a fast talker when looking for a husband. Go for someone who's steady."

"There are still happy times ahead after loss."


From Evelyn "Tootie" Yeager, 102 (p. 214)

"Never feel sorry for yourself."

"If you worry about being old, you will be old."

"Look for a husband who makes you laugh."


They have perspective I can't possibly have--over one hundred years of living! Thus, their claims that there are happy times ahead after loss and that something good usually comes after something bad carry weight. There will be times when we need to hold onto advice like theirs, especially when playing Scrabble against my brother. Might I finally win, after all these years? Save the S's, and there may be happy times ahead.

Thoughts on Reducing Dependency on Oil

On the farm where I grew up, we called one of the fields the "Interurban" field. The tracks from that electric train system had been removed decades earlier, and all that remained was a long, straight hump of earth cutting across the land where cattle blithely munched the grass, crossing up and over the former transit line numerous times during the day.

A few yards south of the Interurban hump were railroad tracks. When we first moved to the farm, trains still passed by. It wasn't long, however, before they, too, were abandoned. The tracks remained, unused, for many years, with weeds poking up among the gravel beneath the ties. I'd walk along looking for loose spikes lying about or bits of broken plates tossed out the windows of dining cars at the turn of the century--I'd run home across the fields with these treasured shards of the past to show my parents. The bits of pottery seemed mysterious and far removed from my contemporary, automobile-dependent life. Now even the railroad tracks have been torn up and the public right-of-way sold to individuals.

Near the house where I currently live, an electric train called the Monon used to run. Its tracks are pulled up, as well, and the path is preserved as an exercise path—not exactly mass transit, but I guess it can move people from town to city to Downtown if they are willing to do it on the seat of a bicycle.

There's no easy way to restore these tracks and trains, now that they've been condemned. At this time, in my town, there are few solutions to dependency on automobiles. There are no more existing “people-movers,” if you will; mass transit is unavailable. We don't even have bus lines! As Americans fell in love with the independence afforded by the automobile, we simultaneously grew dependent upon it, as well. Society submitted to the preference for individual transport and retired the other options.

Now what do we have? The news is reporting the cry for us to wean ourselves from fossil fuels; they are recommending that families and individuals minimize errands, telecommute and carpool. Heavens, I’ve been wanting to do this for years, but other than a bicycle and carpool, there are no other options to which our family can turn in an effort to reduce gasoline consumption.

Here's what I've found.

First off, it’s nice to see that hybrid minivans are on the horizon. Our family of six can't fit into anything smaller, if we all ride together. So as much as I'd like a hybrid, I have to wait at least a little while:

http://www.hybridcars.com/toyota-sienna-minivan-hybrid.html

But in the meantime we are stuck with our fossil-fuel-lovin’ version. And no buses.

My husband has been talking about riding his bike to work, but around here, drivers aren’t used to seeing bicyclists on the streets, especially during the early morning commute. I know someone from our old church who was hit while biking on that side of town. His back has never been right, even after multiple surgeries. As we were checking in at Great Clips last night, a man was talking about a friend of his who was hit while riding his bike. “It’s a good thing he was wearing a helmet, or he wouldn’t be around to tell about it.” This, of course, makes me nervous about sending out my husband to do his part in conserving gasoline, but it’s one of very few options for us. I can bike to a few stores nearby for groceries. In the summer, I’ll bike to the farmer’s market. It’s a small thing. It’s all we can think of to do right now.

I've been hearing about E85, unsure if it is all it's cracked up to be. This article was interesting.
http://www.grist.org/news/muck/2006/02/24/griscom-little/

This story on one man's discovery of soydiesel was also inspiring. In fact, it seems like one of the most affordable possibilities, if we can find a station that will pump it. I'll bet we will soon. On a TV show one time I had heard about the french-fry-grease conversion that this writer mentioned. Reusing fast-food oil? That sounded like an awesome idea--an ideal recycling project--but official soydiesel sounds slightly more accessible and conventional.
http://63.134.216.19/index.cfm?action=magazine.article&issue=soj0601&article=060141c

(If you can't get to that article without subscribing to the site, that's too bad. It's written in an amusing style. You can just get the facts about soydiesel or biodiesel at this site):

http://www.biodiesel.org/resources/biodiesel_basics/default.shtm

Which technologies--which options--will take off, I wonder? Will E85 or biodiesel finally hit it big? Will a bus system make its way to our suburban communities? Will my parents someday have to relinquish the Interurban field to some statewide mass transit rejuvenation program? Or will many of us simply start riding around town on our bikes? It's got the lowest emissions and best health benefits--that is, if you don't get hit. It can't get us across the state, but it can get us across town. As the weather warms, I'm going to ride more...with a helmet, of course. I might even mount one of those bright orange flags like the one I used to have attached to my banana seat Schwinn while growing up. With the money I save on gas, maybe we'll be able to buy a used Mercedes diesel and start burning soy.

I wonder if I could talk my husband into sporting one of those orange flags on his bike? Do you think? Or is that just too uncool?

What's Your Dream Swap?

Only share your dream-swap if it's clean and contemplative-friendly. If you haven't already heard about this guy, check out his story (two slightly different versions, one from CBS News and the other from the Detroit Free Press):

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2006/04/17/tech/main1501269.shtml

http://www.freep.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20060421/BUSINESS04/604210322

For him, it started with a red paperclip.

What would you start with, and where would you end?

Winning the Mini

During my training for our city's half-marathon I was planning to run, the kids cheered me on. "I want you to win, Mama!" they would say when I came back in sweaty and tired.

"Thank you for your vote of confidence!" I'd say, "but I won't win. It's impossible."

"No it's not, not if you run fast."

"No, it's impossible. My age, my training, nothing will allow me to win it. My only goal is to finish it."

"Well, I want you to win," the youngest would say.

This went on for months, with my ongoing explanations that there was no way on earth I would win the Mini, and their ongoing insistance that I should and would.

About a week ago I stopped by the running store to discuss my shoes with a salesman. My youngest was with me, running around the track set up in the store for runners to try out shoes. As we were leaving, he looked up at a scrim-like photo image cut to fit a window up high.

"What's that?" my son asked.

I squinted up at it. It appeared to be a still photo capturing the start of the race: thousands of visors and baseball caps, sunglasses and bib numbers packed together in a mass of humanity. "It looks like a photo of the Mini."

"The Mini? The race you're running?"

"Yes, that race."

He stared up at it in awe, then turned to me with eyes bugged out, horrified. "Oh, Mama! I don't want you to run it! You can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because there's too many people. There's too many people, and I want you to win!" He was very concerned.

"I keep telling you I can't possibly win."

"But I want you to, so you can't run." For the first time, he could see why it was not possible for his mother to win.

He was greatly relieved, then, when I announced this week that I was not going to run. I was supposed to. I trained for it. I followed Hal Higdon's running schedule throughout winter and spring, and it went well: My mind could handle the distance, my heart was ready, my muscles, my shoes--only my knee was complaining.

Toward the end of the training, my knee began to bug me just a little on the long runs. A few weeks later it started hurting after about the fourth mile. When I would go out for a short run and the knee started hurting on the second mile, I knew my chances of jogging 13.1 miles on race day were diminishing rapidly.

It only hurt when I ran. I could bike, walk, or do an elliptical machine pain free, but when I ran, it hurt. I kept waiting to make a decision. I'd rest it for several days, then take a short experimental jog, but it would start hurting again.

I waited until the very last minute to decide, and finally my ride called to confirm details. I told her about the knee. She commiserated. She asked if I was planning to pop some anti-inflammatory pills and run it anyway, and I told her no.

My ultimate goal is to be a runner. I want to be able to run for health, fitness and fun for many years, if possible, and while running the Mini was a goal, it isn't the end-goal. I was disappointed, especially after all that hard work and training, but I took a pass. I didn't run. I didn't even walk it. I just slept in and went to two soccer games.

I just read that a local woman was the top female finisher.

http://www.indystar.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20060506/NEWS01/60506001

She's a 35-year-old mother living nearby. Congratulations, Lucie.

You have my son's deepest respect.

"Just" the Hebrews

My son lifted a wide-mouthed water bottle to his lips at the same moment I accelerated from a four-way stop. Water surged and splashed over his face, down his neck and soaked into his shirt. He pulled the bottle away and wiped his mouth with his arm.

"It's all right, it's all right," he assured us, "I'm jish a little wet. That's all."

His sister laughed, "That's funny how he said that, 'It's all right, it's all right, I'm just a little wet.'"

"Actually," I said, "it's even cuter. Have you noticed that he says, 'jish'?"

"'Jish'...Oh! I guess that's right. 'I'm jish a little wet.' That's cute! 'Jish'."

Suddently making a connection in his mind, my son whispered audibly, but mainly to himself, "It's like the 'jish people.'"