A year in review

It’s a typical practice around the new year to examine the year we are leaving behind.  Sometimes it’s worthwhile to examine any personal gains or losses, or to assess a resolution made at this time last year.  Sometimes, it’s interesting to wonder what, if anything, from this year was truly memorable.  Did anything happen that will live in your mind, or the mind of the country, for years to come?  

Earlier this year, I wrote a column about the coincidental fact that both the Oreo cookie and the Girl Scouts of America turned 100 in the same month.  Since that time I couldn’t help but notice whenever I came across another mention of a noteworthy anniversary.  To my surprise, there were plenty, both of products and events.  Not only was 1912 the founding year of the Oreo and Girl Scouts, but also of L.L. Bean and Paramount pictures, all products and institutions that are still impacting modern life.  One hundred years ago, along with the opening of the great Fenway Park in Boston, the Beverly Hills hotel opened its doors for the first time.  On a darker side, 1912 was the year the Titanic sank and also marked the largest volcanic eruption in the 20^th century with the eruption of the volcano Novarupta in Alaska, producing 30 times more ash than the eruption of Mount St. Helens.

Centennial anniversaries aren’t the only ones to be marked this year.  One hundred and fifty years ago the Morrill Act was signed into law, creating the land grant college system, which was an important milestone in creating affordable higher education for young Americans.  One hundred and fifty years ago, our country fought against each other at the Battle of Antietam, yet we were also optimistic enough to pass the Homestead Act, which was very significant in shaping much of our country.

There were a number of 50^th anniversaries this year as well.  Close to home, this year marked a half-century for the Space Needle, as well as the countrywide networks of KoA’s.  Not to be forgotten is the little orange goldfish cracker, of which children everywhere, my daughter included, have been enjoying for the last 50 years.  

As I gathered this list, it made me wonder, what made people in our past so industrious?  I’ve spent time in other cultures where an innocuous church across the street can be 500 years old.  In times like that, I’ve felt that America is a baby.  But here is proof that things we create in America can last.  And while maybe the Oreo or the Space Needle doesn’t have such a concrete tie to history that a centuries-old church does, we can still celebrate the spirit of our industrious ancestors who came to this country looking to make things that would last for generations.  

In our modern world of immediate satisfaction and viral communication, it might be assumed that everything might last forever.  But among all the chaos, will there be anything worthwhile?  Are we short-changing our creative selves by investing so much time into immediate gratification?

One hundred years isn’t as long as it sounds.  One hundred years ago my great-grandmother had just arrived in this country, looking for a better life.  One hundred years from now, maybe my great-grandchildren will look back on 2012 and be amazed that I was around for such a year, as I have often felt about my great-grandmother.  If we had a crystal ball, would we be surprised by the things that are remembered 100 years from now?  Will it only be remembered as a year where too many innocent lives were unfairly taken from us, or will there be something else--anything, please,--that will last?

Thinking about these things that have lasted for so long makes me feel just how enduring some things can be, and also how short the years really are.  Our time here may be short, but here is proof that the time we do have can be enduring.  Here’s to another memorable year.  

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington.  December 21, 2012

One ending is another beginning

This year, in the midst of a typically festive holiday season is what many have considered to be a very auspicious date.  December 21, 2012 does not simply signify the winter solstice, but also a very important calendar day in the ancient culture of the Mayans.  I’m referring, of course, to what many in popular media have referred to as Doomsday, the Apocalypse, or simply, the End of the World.

A chuckle or two at this thought is not completely out of line.  Imagining the end of the world occurring in simply a matter of days could be slightly comical.  But many around the world have considered this date, if not the ultimate End, at least something worth marking.  

For some time, this date has loomed in the future as some kind of prophesy, a tip from an ancient culture that something fishy was coming, and that it would happen on a precise day.  Looking for secret knowledge from ancient cultures is a popular theme.  It has been assumed that ancient peoples were more in touch with the land and Mother Earth, and therefore more receptive to information regarding wisdom or prophesies.  

While I’m skeptical about ancient cultures prophesizing far into the future, I do believe they attained wisdom and knowledge in ways modern society doesn’t anymore and I do believe these cultures still have much to teach us.  To name just one such intriguing idea, I find it fascinating the way such separate cultures around the globe and across time used what tools they had to calculate such abstract ideas as the calendar.  After all, what practical good does a long-term calendar hold for such people, besides spiritual or intellectual wisdom?  

Today we have the luxury of everyone on Earth using the same method of marking time.  But in ancient cultures, this wasn’t the case and the way these cultures marked cycles of time varied greatly.  The Maya of Mesoamerica had a number of different cycle levels, each one encompassing the ones before it.  Their longest cycle, the baktun, was 394 years and they wrapped each baktun into a grouping of 13, a significant number in their culture.  The current “Great Cycle” of 13 baktuns is coming to an end this December 21st.  

I recently saw an advertisement at a popular outdoors store for a preparedness class for the coming “Zombie Apocalypse” that was sure to occur following this important Mayan date.  I originally thought this great fodder for a column about a prophesy of the end of the world, but the more research I did on the Mayan calendar and what this date actually signified piqued my interest in a different way.  

Proof that the phenomenon this “end date” has created is the involvement of NASA in their attempt to debunk the idea that an astronomical cataclysm is headed toward Earth.  And while I may think it intriguing, and maybe a tad funny, many around the world are taking this calendar date very seriously, and some are quite fearful.  As one NASA official put it, if we put the fear factor aside, there is another real concern that this looming date has brought forth: a lack of regard for science education and skeptical thinking in our schools.  

The spreading of fear of this date is not unlike the Y2K fears that ultimately amounted to nothing more than hype.  And while it may be great cocktail party conversation to talk about how to prepare for the end of the world, it is perhaps more productive to learn about what this date really meant to that culture, and what, if anything, it might mean to ours.  Learning to think outside the box of fear is a skill that is, apparently, learned.

Most experts now agree that next week will mark an important milestone in a very ancient calendar system, but it doesn’t signify a prediction of the end of the world.  Instead, it would likely have indicated a time of great celebration, and maybe a time of contemplation as well.  This is not unlike how many typical celebrate our modern holiday season, and I hope this year we continue to have cause for significant contemplation and celebration.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. December 12, 2012

Local challenges provide creative alternatives

After having been in Grand Coulee for almost two years now, one of the biggest changes that I am still trying to adapt to is an unexpected one.  It’s not the distance to the nearest big box store or mall, nor is it the weather or the size of the community. 

Somewhat surprisingly, it’s the fact that I cannot put out my recycling with the trash.

For much of my youth, many might have labeled me an environmentalist.  When I was in high school I organized a grass roots campaign, if it could even be called that, to ask the lunch ladies not to give out the paper bowls with the chicken sandwiches.  They already came wrapped in aluminum foil.  Why did we also need the paper bowl?  I thought it a waste and tried, before the term was coined, to Reduce Our Use.

“Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” is now the accepted slogan for waste reduction.  It’s so popular, Jack Johnson has even written a catchy song about it.  And for many, this is an edict that ingrains itself into everyday life. 

When we moved here and I found out there was no easy way to recycle, I was a little horrified.  The young environmentalist in me protested. 

The practical side of me understands that the nearest recycling center is too far away to make the business—and that is what recycling is, however noble the cause might be—profitable. 

I also understand that space is not a limiting factor like it is in other parts of the country where I have lived.  In other parts, burgeoning landfills require citizens to be very conscientious about not only recycling but also the other two sides of it: reducing our use of new products and reusing what we already have. 

With every environmentalist cell in me protesting when I throw clearly recyclable material in the trash, I have tried to be creative as to minimizing my footstep in whatever way I can.  I even know some in our community who store up their recyclables and haul them to a convenient recycling center in nearby towns.  Admirable, and worth the effort, if time and space affords such a system.  If not, there are a few alternatives around town worth checking out.

Although my pantry is filled with a plethora of canvas bags, I must confess I use them far less than I ever thought I would and instead opt for the convenience of the grocery store plastic bags.  Plastic bags that find their way to the landfill usually also find their way to harming the environment, killing more than 1 million birds each year, to name just one negative impact.  Luckily, these plastic bags are easily recycled and are made into excellent re-used products.  Our local Safeway has a plastic bag recycle box just inside it’s front door by the flowers.  In my house, the plastic bags build up in my garage to an embarrassing quantity and a few times a year you will find me carting a gigantic armful of plastic bags to the bin in Safeway.  It may take me some time to get there, but my bags get recycled nonetheless, and that’s what matters. 

Also at our Safeway, there is a bin for recycling aluminum cans to raise money for the Senior Center.  This isn’t quite as simple as throwing them in the green bin and dragging it out to my curb, but at the same time, I like it almost even better.  In this case, the money for recycling those cans goes to a local group. 

I don’t generally use a lot of plastic or glass bottles, but when I do, I try to find another use for them or change brands if possible.  Milk for my daughter comes in compostable cartons and glass jars become excellent alternatives to plastic Tupperware. 

In the midst of the waste-producing holiday season, I challenge all of us to find ways to be kinder to the land that nurtures us and to be cognizant of what we throw in our trashcans.  Sometimes, a little creativity is all it takes.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. November 28, 2012

Traditions for every day

As we’ve settled into the school year, our house, like houses across America, has settled into a routine.  Certain days call for certain activities, and many hours of each day fall into expected patterns.  One of the first things that my daughter will ask in the mornings is, “Mommy, what are we doing today?”  She’s always happiest when it is a day that she knows what to expect.  

Children take their cues on how to live out their days from their parents.  But it is not just our job to demonstrate how to get to school on time or what to tick off on the to-do list, it is also up to us, as parents, to demonstrate what we value in our days and in our lives.

With the advent of the holiday season, I think it is important to remember that it is not just the daily routines and traditions that are important to pass along to our children, but the seasonal one’s as well.  

So much of what drives the seasonal fluctuations in our lives are our traditions: what we eat, where we go, who we visit, even what to expect.  

For me, the holidays are about so much more than just one day.  It is about a thousand tiny daily rituals that add up to an entire season full of extra sparkle.  It is about smoking a turkey and making my mother’s stuffing.  It is about sitting around a laughing table with loved ones and sharing a thankful meal.  It is about finding the perfect tree and placing colorful lights upon it.  It is about setting up the train set and baking cookies, wrapping presents and finding the right gift for every person on my list.  

One of my favorite traditions is sitting down with my family and making tamales, a tradition passed down from a great-grandmother who immigrated from Mexico.  One hundred years later, her descendents still sit around a large table together every holiday season and carefully make these delicious delicacies.  As with many holiday traditions, it is more than the lure of a delicious meal that draws us to return to this tradition.  It is about being with family and continuing a long and cherished tradition.  It is about making new memories and sharing old ones, retelling tales we hear almost every year, yet still make us laugh or cry.

As my daughter gets older, I delight in passing down these traditions, sharing in these seasonal rituals, and adding to them.  I know each year we add to our own traditions to remember for future years sitting around a table and laughing at a memory.  

At the start of every holiday season, I know that in a blink of an eye it will be over.  I also know that the week after the holiday’s are over, I will experience a simultaneous sigh of relief that it is back to business as usual and a sigh of regret that it all passed so quickly.  Next week, before we are bombarded by the sparkly excess of December, I hope to take a moment for a day of appreciation, a word that takes on new meaning with each passing year.  What we experience and expect each holiday season may be tied up in small, daily rituals, but it is the larger seasonal traditions that drive us and in the end, tie us together.  

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. November 14, 2012

Who we really are

My three-year-old daughter recently declared that she had a favorite song.  The use of the term “favorite” made me sit up and listen.  Although she had been displaying preferences since birth, this was her first declaration of a “favorite” anything.  I find the idea fun, even if I have to listen to the “Wheels on the Bus” every time I get in the car.  

As I watch my daughter jump headfirst into defining what she likes and dislikes into favorites and aversions, I know that she is, at the core, defining a preference.  She is at the beginning of a lifelong road of finding and defining the things that she prefers, and ultimately loves or hates.  In the end, I know that it is these specific definitions, our preferences, which make us who we are.  
At this early stage, my daughter has yet to learn that a preference is a one-sided opinion.  What is pleasant to one person may be entirely unpleasant to another.  These differences make us all unique.  It is when we begin to define our preferences that our differences are revealed.
Next week the nation will express our preferences as we go to the election polls.  Elections, after all, are nothing if not about defining our preferences and our differences.  
Now that my daughter is in preschool, these defining preferences are becoming a theme in her interactions with her peers.  We, as parents, love to watch our children find things that they love.  My kid loves the sandbox, and yours loves the monkey bars.  Isn’t that fascinating?  So wonderful!  Watching the beginning of finding a passion in our children is thrilling to witness.
But I have to wonder as I watch these children define their favorites.  Such a simple distinction like the sandbox and monkey bars are innocuous now, but over time, will it grow to an unreachable divide?  By the time these kids reach middle school, after playing apart in their favorite activities for so long, will they have anything in common?
Is a common ground even necessary to form a friendship?  Just because one prefers the sandbox and another prefers the monkey bars, does that mean they won’t be friends?  Or, can’t be friends?  As adults, is it necessary to have something in common with another to be friends, or for that matter, friendly?
As I watch the election coverage, it makes me wonder what sort of example we are setting.  Any child watching would suspect that a common ground is absolutely essential for grown ups to be friends, or even to respect each other.  

How do we teach our children to respect each other’s preferences, when one is constantly saying that the monkey bars are better than the sandbox and neither will budge?
Perhaps it’s a far-reaching analogy.  But as we catapult into this election, our preferences and likes and dislikes blazing, I can’t help but think about where that came from.  Somewhere, sometime, a mother like me sat on the side of the playground and cheered as her child displayed an unabashed love for a new favorite thing.  

As adults, have our definition of preferences and favorites taken us so far?  When did we determine that it was okay to disrespect someone else’s preferences?  These are things that make us who we really are.  And just because we prefer two distinct things, does that really make us so different from one another?  As a parent, I know that it is my job to teach that a difference in preference does not mean an end of a friendship.
My daughter is too young to make this election any sort of teachable moment for her.  But it may be a good one for me.  Regardless of the elections outcome, it might do us all good to remember that it is our choices that make the world an interesting place.  After all, just because you like the sandbox and I like the monkey bars, doesn’t mean we still can’t play in the same playground.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington.  October 31, 2012

If we are what we eat...

Like many children who grew up in the suburbs of America, I had a typical, and rather uninvolved relationship with the food I ate.  I was an athlete and had healthy parents, so tried to be thoughtful, but I spent very little time wondering where the food we bought in the grocery store came from and what, if anything other than satisfying my hunger, my food was doing to my body.

When I moved to a small college town in Oregon for graduate school, I got in the habit of going down to the farmer’s market on the weekend.  On bright summer mornings, there wasn’t a better way to spend an hour or two than walking by the river, sipping coffee and contemplating the splendid array of fresh, incredibly bright and tantalizing fruits and vegetables.  After a time, I even started buying some.  Immediately, I was impressed by the taste and incredible affordability of the food.  For less than I spent on that coffee I was sipping, I could buy a bag or two of locally grown, picked-just-this-morning fruits and vegetables.

I was hooked.

When I moved into my own house, I started a vegetable garden and have depended on a small but steady supply of fresh vegetables every summer since.  Like many others who have small vegetable plots, I still buy the majority of my food from a grocery store.  But, I am far from alone in delighting in eating what I grow, and each year the local food movement grows stronger.

Next week, on October 24th, the nation will celebrate its 2nd annual Food Day.  Organized by the Center for Science in the Public Interest (CSPI), Food Day is “a movement for healthy, affordable, and sustainable food.”  With a strong focus on health, the day is also meant to highlight hunger, agricultural policy, and animal and farm worker welfare.

For all the greeting card inspired holidays that fill our calendar, I find this new national celebration day to be worthy of some involvement and attention.  According to their website, foodday.org, 50 million Americans are near hunger and those who are near the poverty line are lured into buying cheap, overly-processed foods, contributing only to increasing waistlines and declining health.  In fact, it is because of this diet that one-third of children born after the year 2000 will likely develop diabetes.  And it is this downward spiral that perpetuates the current estimation that this generation of children will, for the first time in history, have a shorter lifespan than that of their parents.

While the local food movement is growing, and many people nationwide are becoming aware of just how far their food has traveled to get to their table, so far it isn’t enough to change either the food system or our health.  The USDA estimates that only 1.6% of food sales is direct farm-to-table, including farmer’s markets, CSA’s and school gardens.  

There is much that divides us, nationally, internationally, and even within our own towns.  But food is not only something that all of us need, it is also something all of us want.  Who doesn’t want food that is affordable, delicious, and good for us too?  

According to the Food Day website, there are four events taking place in Spokane and over 1,600 events taking place in all 50 states on October 24th.  We don’t have to drive to Spokane to recognize this day, and in fact, it doesn’t even have to be something we do on just one day.  Whatever our situation, eating healthy and thoughtfully is a goal to be achieved by all.


Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. October 17, 2012

From "free-range" to "helicopter" parenting

A couple of weeks ago, a rather notorious mother in New York, Lenore Skenazy, started an after-school program for children.  This is the same mother who, a few years ago, let her then nine-year-old son ride the New York City subway on his own, with nothing but a map and fare money.  Her new after-school program is an 8-week course costing $350 per child.  All that is on the schedule?  Free play in a playground in Central Park with the promise of absolutely no adult supervision.  In fact, Skenazy herself will be around the corner in a Starbucks.

Skenazy’s movement, labeled as “free range parenting” is considered by many to be radical, but I wonder instead if it is simply at the opposite end of the spectrum of the more popular, and even more socially acceptable, helicopter parenting.  Is her parenting style just a knee-jerk reaction to a movement she finds overbearing and unsuccessful?  Is it a throwback attempt, when childhood was, presumably, slower paced?

In either case, the arrival of free-range parenting is a spark for the always-conversational topic about parenting styles.  In many areas of the country, the way you parent your children has become a bit competitive.  Whose child has the highest grades?  Whose child has the fastest time, got into the best college?

This pervasive competitive spirit among some parents has me wondering.  What does it mean to be a successful parent?  A child that makes it out of adolescence without bodily harm to themselves or others?  Entrance into an Ivy-League school?  A well-rounded, happy adult? Is success as a parent even something we can measure, much less compare to others?

In a poll conducted by Vanity Fair last month, a whooping 95% of us think we rate either the same as or better than our own parents at parenting.  What could possibly make us think so highly of something that is difficult at best to measure?  Are we that self-assured that we are forming the next generation of super-adults?

In actuality, despite the fact that more and more of America’s children are achieving a higher education, kids are taking longer to be independent.  This has even sparked the new phrase “Adultescence” to describe the extended period of financial and emotional support provided by parents before children make the final leap into adulthood.  This phenomenon might instead suggest something larger in our society, whether it is the propensity of helicopter parents, over scheduling of kids, or the long list of other factors that make “childhood” almost unrecognizable to the generations that came before this one.

Free-range parenting leader Skenazy insists that total supervision of children is not only unnecessary, but harmful.  When parents hover and interact with children on a minute-by-minute basis, we neglect to let them experience such things as frustration, disappointment, and even anger.  She insists that left alone, they will work out any social transgressions and physical limitations on their own.

Here in the coulee, we aren’t presented with some of the difficulties raising children in other places are.  There could hardly be a safer place to let your kids go outside and play unsupervised, and over scheduling is not necessarily something we have to worry about either.  But nationally, all these things are a daily presence for many kids in America and it is something interesting to think about.  Would you let your children play in a city park unsupervised?

In my short three and a half years as a parent, I’ve found that, like politics, you can almost always find credible information to support your beliefs as a parent.  And, like politics, extremism as a parent ends up making everyone around you crazy.  Perhaps, for those of us in the middle on the helicopter vs. free-range debate, it is simply another exercise in finding the right balance as a parent.  After all, parenting is, if nothing else, about finding a balance.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington.  October 3, 2012

Something to count on

There is, perhaps, nothing so steady, predictable, and at times frightening in life as the continuity of the calendar.  No matter what is happening in your life or the world tomorrow will bring a new day.  And every year, it will bring with it another birthday.  

Around this time every year, without fail, I celebrate a birthday.   A worthy cause for celebration, birthdays are an important ritual.  It is a yearly acknowledgment to yourself and the people in your life that this day is a good one, a day when the unique person that is you entered the world.  

Growing up, birthdays were joyous occasions filled with balloons and bright colors, chaotic present openings and copious amounts of cake and ice cream.  Somewhere just past the first flush of adulthood, birthdays begin to be less of something to celebrate and more of something to endure.  Older still, they become something that many start to dread.

Every year that passes I begin to understand this sentiment a little more.  As a child, birthdays are a sign that you are growing up, gaining experience and independence.  But once you pass that imaginary hump, birthdays instead slip over into the fine distinction of marking the basic fact that your earthly body is ageing.

Certainly, this is still something to celebrate.  Without doubt, I would prefer to grow older than the alternative, and I’m sure most would agree with me.

As I grow older, I also understand that ageing is simply a matter of perspective.  I am fully aware that I am in the prime of my life and am nothing but thrilled to be the age that I am.  I an also clearly remember what it was like to view a 30-plus-year-old as someone who was simply old.

The summer I was 20 I shared an office space with a 30-year-old.  He frequently made references to the need for “us young people to stick together.”  This always garnered a behind-the-back eye roll and snicker amongst those in our office who actually were “young.” At 30, this poor guy was anything but young.

Now that I have come up to and rocketed past his age, I have far more sympathy for what he was feeling.  Now when I come across college-aged kids, I am embarrassed to admit that I fully believe that we are still contemporaries, when, clearly, they wouldn’t agree with me.  When I see a younger person now their youth simply mirrors what I still see when I imagine myself.

Every year that I age, I have more appreciation for people older than myself.  As they say, growing older is not for the faint of heart.  It is difficult to accept that you are no longer young, that you may be too old to be in a certain place or wear certain clothes.  That your body may not always perform like you think it should.  I’m beginning to understand why older people shy away from a camera or a mirror.  What you see in the mirror rarely corresponds with how you see yourself.   It’s easier now to see that life is not a circle, but instead an uphill battle with gravity.

Somehow, though it happens to everyone, when you are young you never actually think that getting older will happen to you.  Youth seems to stretch before you.  Now, as I’m on the cusp of, well, something older than “young,” I understand that in fact it’s the opposite.  You are old far longer than you are young.

With each passing birthday I find that I’m happy with this phenomenon.  Youth carries with it so many uncertainties that fall away with the simple march of time, replaced by confidence and a contentment with ageing that is hard to imagine when you are young.  As for the relentless dependability of the calendar, I suppose it is just another lesson to learn as you grow up and grow older.  Rituals and predictability are, after all, comforting.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington.  September 19, 2012

New beginnings

Every year as the calendar flips over into September, I feel a little thrill of anticipation. As an adult, I attribute this to the approaching autumn, my favorite season. But deep down I know that this feeling is a relic of my childhood, a remembrance of what September always brought: the first day of school.

Like many children, I adored the first day of school. I remember looking forward to the coming school year with such eagerness. An entire year stretched out before me with a trove of exciting days, undiscovered promises and perhaps, even some learning. My brother was a year ahead of me in school, so every year I had a peep into what was awaiting me. This made the start of the school year that much more exciting for me as I finally got to discover the secrets that he already knew.

This week, my daughter will have her first day of preschool. I realize that preschool is just a few hours a couple of days a week and will probably not compare to how I feel when she starts kindergarten. But to me, it feels like a significant milestone nonetheless.

As the calendar rolled over into September this year I felt an extra thrill of anticipation. School is starting, and I get to experience it all anew through the fresh eyes of a parent.

In the weeks leading up to this day I had a few surprises as a parent of an upcoming student. I received her school supply list, which was not, as my child mind remembered, a suggested list of supplies your child might need, like a pencil box or backpack, but instead a long list of the things each family needed to supply to the school. I had to fill out an extensive background check to be able to volunteer in her class. I was informed of the various fundraisers we will perform throughout the year, joining the ranks of other parents who are constantly pawning boxes of donuts or wrapping paper onto their friends and neighbors. And while I was somewhat surprised at the level of involvement required for preschool, I was excited at the same time. This is a new era, for our world and for our family. Certainly when I was in school, background checks were not required of parents. But I would far rather fill out some extra paperwork and ensure the safety of our children in this modern era than the alternative. Like children, we parents must adapt as well.

As I kissed my daughter goodbye, I was attentive of what I was sending her into. A world where every day her mind will expand, bending to absorb all the educational and social experiences school will give her. I am also aware that I send her out into a world that is no longer within my control. This is not the first time she has not been beneath my supervision, but as a stay-at-home-mom I am accustomed to having a level of management over her experiences. I am aware that this first day of school is not just a milestone for her, but one for me as well. If parenting is a gradual give and take between preparing your children for the world and then letting them go, then this is a start for me as well.

Since my daughter is only three, and this is only preschool, the importance of this day in her life is probably far over her head. For her, it’s an exciting day to meet new friends, sit in a circle on a colorful carpet, sing songs and play games. But for me, it’s also a new beginning, and maybe, a little bit of an end too.

Great American road trip says “See America First”

When America’s frontier was officially declared closed in 1890, the country scrambled for a new identity. For hundreds of years, we had been a nation with seemingly limitless borders. The stretch from the Atlantic to the Pacific felt endless and the people of our nation proudly embraced the idea of their pioneering character. But when the frontier closed, the nation stumbled to find a new backbone. Expansionism was over and the world wars that brought our modern nation into global dominance was still in the future.

Around this time, the elite and middle classes of the east coast were spending $500 million a year visiting Europe. In an effort to keep some of that money at home, the newly formed national parks and the great railways that depended on domestic travel joined hands and gave America a new identity. By insisting that true nationalists “See America First,” they impressed upon the nation a new identity that was tied to the terrain within our own country. Tourism in America was officially launched and a new national spirit inspired citizens.

When rail travel was replaced with the personal automobile, Americans clambered in and took to the highways. Rising gas prices notwithstanding, then, as now, the American road trip was within reach of all classes. This summer, my family and I, along with millions of others, continued this tradition. Like other families across America, we stuck to a reasonable distance and explored our neighboring states.

Leaving the highway system and the warp speed it requires, we took to the back roads and slowed down, marveling that the life we saw passing our windows existed in the same country that we did. The diversity in life and landscape was dramatic.

Traveling through three different national parks gave me some interesting perspective. I found that I was incredible proud, not just of the breathtaking landscape, but of the foresight and ingenuity required to set aside such spectacular places. It was hard to remember that when these lands were set aside, land in America was plenty and the need to preserve and protect all but absent.

As we traveled through the national parks I marveled at the diversity I saw in such remote places. License plates from almost every state, many languages, and a smorgasbord of nationalities were represented at every visitor’s center and scenic overlook. I also found it interesting to see that despite the stunning vistas, human weaknesses were just as rampant. Tailgaters, pushy camera-toting tourists, and outright rudeness were abundant. Yet in the midst of such thoughtlessness towards other humans, everyone was incredible considerate towards the landscape. Somehow being in such wildness seemed to create an air of responsibility around almost every tourist I saw. It was as if we were all united behind one pulse of thought: protect this wild place.

It is no secret that the wild places and wild things of the world are shrinking. In many places on our trip, set in the middle of some of the most rugged country in our nation, cell reception was perfect and a mobile GPS unit could find me no matter what road I traveled.

Upon creation, the National Park Service was charged with providing pleasure for the American people while also keeping them “unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations.” Such a mission statement is challenging at best, but after spending my summer vacation “Seeing America First,” I have to say it is well worth the effort. The identity of future generations of Americans may depend on it.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. August 22, 2012

More than a medal

When the Olympics came to Atlanta, I was an impressionable 15-year-old involved in two different high school sports.  The day after Muhammad Ali famously lit the torch, my family and I were sweltering in the Atlanta heat, working a concession booth at the aquatic center.  It was thrilling for me as a young teenager to be at the very center of such an electric venue.  The atmosphere of any athletic event has some electricity to it, but the energy in an Olympic stadium sent sparks through the entire city. 

I felt lucky to be living in a city that hosted the Olympics, and even luckier to have a front row ticket for many of the aquatic events.  As I walked up and down the stands, selling frozen lemonade from an enormous bag draped around my neck, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t impacted by what I saw. 

The Olympics also came to Los Angeles when I was living there as a child and perhaps because of those combined first-hand experiences, along with the fact that I chose athletics over other pursuits in my formative years, I’ve always gotten a thrill of anticipation when the Olympics come around.  This year, I eagerly hunkered down with the rest of the country to watch our 529 athletes take their moment. 

Besides the remarkable athletic achievements the Olympics always inspires, I find the two weeks when the Games take place to be a moment in time when the world can draw together.  It is a singular worldwide event that is for something good and simple, for pure competition and gamesmanship.  And each time, I find that there is a hope, however small or naive, that we can come together for something as simple as a sport, something as innocent as winning a game or a race.  As a citizen, I have found watching the Olympics leaves me with an enormous sense of pride.  As a nation, we can rally around our athletes without worrying about crossing party lines, racial divisions, or socioeconomic separations.  It’s as simple and uncomplicated as cheering for an athlete of our country.

This is the first summer Olympic games that have transpired since I became a mother, and I find that this distinction has allowed me to see these incredible athletes through an even sharper lens.  In a world where our celebrities don’t often do anything to deserve the word, or the admiration we give them, I find these athletes have a lot to admire.  They offer up real role models for our children.   Coming from all across America, from every race and background, these kids are making their dreams solid and achievable. 

There is a lot our youth can learn from these incredible athletes: the pursuit of a goal, the intricacies of competition, how to lose gracefully and win modestly.  They can learn about what it takes to feed their bodies appropriately and how to use their minds to push their bodies beyond their limits.  There is the opportunity to learn how to interact with a team for a common goal, how to strategize and design for an achievement.  And perhaps most importantly, there is the chance to learn how to take pride in yourself for an accomplishment, no matter if there is a gold medal.  For the athlete that has taken 4^th or didn’t make it to the final, simply to make an Olympic team is an enormous achievement. 

Every four years when that torch is lit, I find that I can remember the thrill of the Olympics being in town, where dreams are sometimes measured in a matter of inches or hundredths of seconds.  I can now point to 529 new people of my own country and countless others around the world to admire and look up to.  I applaud the excess of courage it must take to follow a dream as far as the Olympics.  My hat is off to our athletes and eagerly await the lighting of the next torch.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington.  August 8, 2012

Water savings brings satisfaction

Before coming to Grand Coulee, my family and I lived in New Mexico where I held a job as a water conservation specialist.  When we found out we were moving to Washington, I didn’t think that much of the knowledge I had gained with my profession would be that useful here.  Even knowing that eastern Washington is considered a semi-arid environment, I assumed there would be more differences than similarities.

Every day I drive by the lakes and appreciate what a gift it is to be literally flanked by water. After spending years in an area with little open water and sparse rainfall, I don’t go by the lakes in Grand Coulee without appreciating their splendor. 

But, in a way we are teased with so much water here.  Living near two such substantial lakes can give a false sense of entitlement.  Why conserve water when there is a lake on the other side of the road? 

But making a life in a semi-arid environment demands that we be aware of any overuse of scarce resources.  And regardless of the plethora of water at our fingertips, it doesn’t necessarily mean that we should abuse its gift.

In my past life as a water conservation specialist, my job consisted of educating the public about the most efficient ways to save water and I’ve retained a few bits and pieces that might be beneficial to pass on to a town that has more similarities to a high desert environment than I initially thought.  With summer at its peak, monitoring outdoor water usage is our most efficient way of protecting this precious resource. 

As the days have hit their high temperatures, the best way we can save water is to refrain from any outdoor watering between the hours of 10am and 6pm.  Any watering outside of those times will maximize your efforts, for your garden and for your water bill.  Watering in the cool mornings and evenings will minimize the amount of evaporation from your garden, allowing it to retain the most amount of the water you shower on it.

Other ways to maximize outdoor watering efforts are to mulch any open soil areas to help retain moisture and keep the roots of your plants cool, thereby reducing the amount of water they might need on these hot days.  For those of us who aren’t lucky enough to have an automatic irrigation system, it’s helpful to set a kitchen timer to make sure not to over water when sprinklers or hoses are on.  Pots and hanging baskets may require a little water every day in the heat of the summer, but grass, trees, and vegetable gardens will benefit from longer watering less frequently.  And as much as I hate to admit it, keeping a garden weed-free is a sure way to save some water at any time of the year.  Weeds tend to be water hogs and will steal water and nutrients from your plants, making them suffer and require more watering.

Leaky indoor faucets are noticed almost immediately, whereas outdoor faucets, pipes and hoses may have to be consciously checked a few times a season to stay leak-free.  And as it is the season to enjoy our beautiful Grand Coulee sun, spending a few extra minutes in the yard can’t be too bad, even if you are just checking for leaks.   

Clearly, there are plenty of ways to save water indoors as well.  Older models of toilets, washing machines and dishwashers can be extreme water and energy hogs.  According to a new study out of the University of Bonn in Germany, washing a load of dishes by hand can use on average 27 gallons of water, yet washing the same amount of dishes in an energy-efficient dishwasher uses approximately 4 gallons of water. 

Regardless of the size of your household, garden, or lawn, there are ways we can all pitch in to monitor our use of water.  As we enjoy our lakes this summer, you can be proud of what you’ve contributed to preserving as much of this precious resource as possible.

Previously published in the "Grand Coulee Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. July 25, 2012

The true heart of the home

One of the things I’ve always loved about American homes is the prominence of the kitchen. Far more than other cultures, where kitchens are small and tucked away out of sight, American architects embraced the idea that the heart of the home is in the kitchen. I love homes that bring the living space into the cooking space. The action is there, it’s where people tend to congregate, and it allows us to be together at a time of the day when, with a different layout, families might disperse.

In early May a study came out saying that, by 2030, 42 percent of Americans will be obese. This is a shocking number, and a terrible future to saddle our children with. In other words, this means that almost half of our children, who will be adults then, will not just be fat. They will be obese, a label that has meaning beyond the simple circumference of our waistlines.

The health care costs of having so much of our population be obese will be astronomical. According to the Farmer’s Almanac, in 2011 the value of lost productivity and medical care costs due to overweight Americans and Canadians was $300 billion. Imagine that number 18 years from now when so many more of us will be so unhealthy.

But what about the other costs of obesity? In mid-June a father of two young boys in Canada was denied custody of his children in part because he was too fat. Even admitting that there were other reasons to deny him custody, the fact that the judge included this detail in his decision is alarming. A doctor at the family court clinic in Ottawa concluded that the man “lacks both the mobility and stamina required to keep up with young and active children.” The ruling also declared that since the father was unable to make the correct decisions regarding health and well-being for himself, he would be unable to do so for his sons.

This is a chilling ruling, and one that may have profound ripple effects. Who can decide whether a parent is “healthy enough” to take care of their children? And while this particular case may be extreme, the warning signs are there. I think the question we have to ask is what sort of example are we setting for our children? If we can’t take care of ourselves, can we be expected to take care of our children? Is obesity a sign of self-destructive behavior?

With the warmer days of summer, food choices tend to be different than in winter months. Fresh fruit and vegetables grace our farmer’s markets and tables. At restaurants there is a greater desire to order a salad than a nourishing plate of pasta. But tantalizing summer treats are at our fingertips. According to WebMD, in 2008 the average American ate 14 pounds of ice cream! Shockingly, this number is down from a peak in 1946, when Americans celebrated the end of sugar rationing by ingesting 23 pounds of ice cream per person.

As a parent, I find that I am constantly in the process of teaching my daughter something. But when it comes to food, I find that she often has more to teach me. If I put fruit and mac n’ cheese on her plate, she’ll invariably reach for the fruit first. She stops eating when she is full, not when the food is gone. She also teaches me to savor my food. It takes her three bites to eat one M&M.

I still believe that the heart of the home is in the kitchen and the smell of nourishing food simmering on the stove immediately puts me at ease. But maybe, as a culture, the fact that our homes orbit around our kitchens doesn’t necessarily mean that our lives have to orbit around our food. Maybe, the heart of the home is simply the loving people in it, regardless of where we tend to gather.

Declaring Independence

Next week marks one of my favorite holidays of the calendar year—Independence Day.  I love this holiday because it is typically a day filled with simple good cheer.  I find it an easy holiday to celebrate.  The weather is usually warm and pleasant.  Friends and family gather around barbeques, lakes, and pools to laugh and simply be together.  It is an uncomplicated day filled with little family drama or outsized expectations, like many holidays can be.  On the surface, the 4^th of July is purely a day to have fun, watch some fireworks, eat, drink, and be merry.

In years past I’ve spent the morning of the 4^th with 60,000 of my closest friends, running the largest 10K road race in the world.  With 150,000 spectators cheering on the runners, the Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta has always been a festive way to kick off the holiday.  This year family will be traveling across the country to spend the day with us, and we’ll enjoy a far more peaceful day lazing on the lake instead of running the streets with a mob.

As Independence Day draws closer, I watch my 3-year old daughter discover her own independence.  In fact, as I watch her, the term “independence” has taken on a whole new meaning.  Before I was a parent, independence was a clear definition, one I always associated with fighting the British and declaring a self-ruling republic.  But being a parent forces one to look at life through a different lens.  I can see that to a child, independence is something they covet from their parents.  My daughter’s first strung-together sentence was, “I do it myself!”  A clear sign that she needed some independence from me.   The need is so strong that if she is not following my directions, all I have to do is the time-proven method of counting to three.  I always assumed parents did this with the threat of some punishment.  But for my own child, the threat is simply that if she doesn’t comply by the time I reach three, I will do the task—whatever that may—for her.  She almost always complies before I reach three, the need for independence far outpacing her need to ignore my instructions.  I’m sure that as she grows older, her need for independence will become even clearer.

To be independent is not only something children in our society strive for.  Independence means something different at each age in our lives, for each person, each religion and nationality.  Independence and the freedom it offers means something different for Jewish Americans, African Americans, Native Americans and countless others.  Independence means something different to a 10-year old than it does to an 80-year old.  Some are just learning to stretch their wings and declare their independence, while on the opposite spectrum our elderly are clutching their independence tightly, unwilling to have their wings clipped.

Each Independence Day I’m always slightly surprised by how proud we are as a nation to be independent, even if it is so casually celebrated at a barbeque and fireworks show.  It shouldn’t surprise me, but 236 years later, I find that becoming, and maintaining, an independent nation is still something worth celebrating.  These freedoms trickle all the way down to my 3-year old, able to find and define her own independence.  There are many freedoms to celebrate this 4^th of July, large and small, and finding and appreciating each one of those is our privilege.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, WA.  June 27, 2012

A moment to stand still

Next week is the summer solstice, denoting the longest day of the year and the official start of summer.  For some cultures this is a day of marked celebration.  In our own country it seems that many years this day can be passed by with a casual nod from the local weatherman mentioning the peak of daylight hours for the year.

When I was in my 20’s I spent a summer working as an environmental researcher in Sweden.  Before that time, celebrating the summer solstice was not something on my mental list of noteworthy holidays, but in Sweden it is a national holiday and one with supreme cultural importance.  For a country that is very dark much of the year, the general populace tends to transform into a sun-worshiping frenzy for the brief summer months.  As the sun doesn’t ever quite disappear except for an extended period of hazy twilight, this makes some sense.  For a transient visitor like myself, I enjoyed watching people bask so thoroughly in something that I had typically taken for granted.  Their simple joy was infectious.  When the solstice came I joined in the masses and made my way out to the countryside to stay up through the sun-soaked night, weave a crown of wildflowers on my head and dance around the Maypole. 

Since that time, I have always noted the summer solstice with fondness and an interest I didn’t have before.  It seems to me that such a day deserves some attention.  After all, we owe much to the sun. 

The term “solstice” is a Latin term that literally means the sun “stands still” and traditionally was used as a term to define an exact moment in time.  Today we use it to define the day that has the longest period of daylight. 

Ancient cultures used the summer solstice as a moment to pause and celebrate life in between the busy times of planting and harvest.  Most societies tended to focus on celebrating the sign of fertility in the earth and the immense power the sun held over their livelihoods.  They rejoiced with feasts and yearly rituals, such as leaping over bonfires to determine how high the crops would grow.  The Druids celebrated the solstice as the day of the wedding of Heaven and Earth and even today the summer solstice is considered a “lucky” wedding day.  Most celebrations of the summer solstice tend to pre-date Christianity but aren’t wholly pagan in nature.  Christians placed the feast day of St. John the Baptist on the day of his birth, a few days after the solstice, instead of the more typical feast day celebration for saints on the day of his death. 

In modern times, countries around the world have varied celebrations.  In Austria a flotilla of ships sail down the Danube, large bonfires are lighted all around Quebec, Denmark, Hungary, Germany and Estonia, while Italy and Ireland celebrate with fireworks.  In our own country, celebrations tend to congregate in cities with large populations of immigrants from Northern European countries such as New York, Minneapolis, Chicago and Santa Barbara.

Perhaps the largest celebration takes place at the great monument of Stonehenge in England.  British subjects are allowed access onto the site, which is normally roped off, on the days of the summer and winter solstice.  Perfectly aligned towards both the rising and setting sun on the solstice, the site has enormous religious, astrological, and spiritual significance in both modern and ancient times.

Another ancient structure constructed to highlight the interaction between earth and sun is the Mayan Temple of Kukulcan, which signals the precise moment where the sun “stands still.”  At that moment, if viewed from above, one would be able to see the south and west sides cast in shadow and the north and east sides blazing in the sun.

This year, the sun will “stand still” on June 20^th at 4:09pm PST.  If you find yourself aware of the time next week, take a moment to stand still and be thankful for the bountiful gifts the sun provides us before the earth’s axis tilts again, sending us back towards shorter days and longer nights.
Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. June 13, 2012

The power of words

If I had a penny for how many times I’ve used the phrase “Use your words,” over the last two years, I’d be, as they say, rich.  My house at this time is like an intensive English-language boot camp.  My three-year-old daughter is at that stage all children pass through where her emotions far outpace her command of the English language.  Although perhaps this is a stage not restricted to childhood.  As adults putting emotions, wishes, fears, and angers into the right words is sometimes equally elusive.

So it’s no wonder that adults and precocious toddlers butt heads when communication barriers prohibit real understanding of oversized emotions.  It’s also no wonder that they pick up on the bad language that we let slip as much as the good language we so ferociously try to teach.  And as funny as it is when a pint-sized little creature lets slip a well placed four-letter word, it’s also alarming.

We are not totally to blame, children pick up bad language from everywhere and there is really no sheltering them from it.  The parenting guru’s tell us that we are supposed to simply ignore the use of a bad word and they will stop using it, otherwise we end up demonstrating just how much power a certain word can carry. 

I understand that thought in practice—ignore bad words, reward good words—but in reality I find it slightly contradictory.  I’m constantly telling my daughter just how powerful her words actually are.  “Use your words,” is the mantra, but beneath it lies the meaning: your words have incredible value and are powerful, I will listen to you and most likely grant your request if you speak nicely.  So isn’t that what we are trying to teach them, that words have power?

The powers that be also tell us to teach our children to simply ignore it if another child is mean to them on the playground.   But, if we are teaching our children to ignore both actions and words, where does that get them? 

A playground taunt frequently heard says, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”  Most likely this ageless chant came from an attempt to ignore a bully, but I wonder if it is teaching our children that their words don’t have power over others?  Perhaps a better quote to teach them would be that of Pearl Strachan: “Handle them carefully, for words have more power than atom bombs.” 

As I try to find a way to impress upon my young daughter that words and actions have a breadth of power and influence over others, I try to gain some understanding myself.

Are we, as parents, really teaching our children our own moral code, or are we teaching them what we wish our moral code would be?  At any given hour there is a stream of commands directed at children: say please, pick up your toys, brush your teeth, eat your peas.  How often do we phrase our commands to our children with as much respect as we’d like our children to speak to others?  In this case, are they learning by listening to our words or our actions?

I understand that what I say to my daughter is important and that she does hear me, even if I have to repeat myself a hundred times.  I understand that I should ignore the bad—bad words, bad behavior, bad manners, and reward the good—good words, good behavior, good manners.  As I watch what she is actually internalizing, I get the feeling that what I say matters so much less than what I do. 

I don’t know if they actually say the “sticks and stones” chant on the playground anymore, but as my daughter grows up, I will try to rise to the challenge of teaching her to be aware of both her words and actions, and maybe to develop a thick skin for those words that aren’t directed with such care.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, WA. May 30, 2012

An oldie but goody

As the days have lengthened, the sun has once again become our constant companion.  And although I am still shocked every day at just how early that sun makes its appearance, I am warmed, literally and figuratively, by its presence.  With the sun has come warmer days, bright, fragrant blossoms and the promise of those long-remembered days at the lake.  Colorama has rung in the unofficial start of the Grand Coulee summer, and Memorial Day is almost upon us, signaling that the rest of the country is ready to start summer too, officially or not.

Now that spring has firmly taken hold and summer is peaking at us from around the corner, I have found the urge to plant my garden overpowering.  In years past, I have taken into account things like long-range forecast and the last frost date, and many years my guideline has simply been when my dog sheds his winter fur.  Inexplicably, and perhaps foolishly, I have total faith that my dog is clued in to some larger cosmic weather data than I am.  This year, I was delighted to see that my large black mutt has shed his winter coat long before I remember him doing so last year.  Predictably, I was anxious to plant way too early.  So instead of just blindly trusting my canine, I decided to try a different route and check out The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

Like many people of my generation, the cover is familiar, even if the exact contents are not.  Wrongly, I have assumed that the information this little book contained was out of date and anything that was worthwhile I could find online.  Contradictorily, I also knew that this book I never found worth my time holds some sound truths that likely align with the same cosmic mystery my dog is clued in to.

I was surprised by a number of things as I thumbed through it, not the least of which was how pertinent the information was.  I was blown away to read that this is the 220^th consecutive edition of The Old Farmer’s Almanac, the first one having been printed in 1792.  I find that remarkable, especially since they have been predicting the weather with 90% accuracy using a secret formula derived by the books’ founder, with only slight additions to accommodate new technology.

I did find out some basics such as the first and last frost dates, specific 7-day forecasts for our region for the entire year, planting tips for gardens of all types, and advice on lawn care.  I also learned some quirky tidbits.  I should have planted above ground crops, such as tomatoes and peppers, when the moon was waxing and below ground crops, such as carrots and onions, when the moon was waning.  I read engrossing articles on what recent, and historical, volcanic eruptions have done to the global climate, soil quality and worldwide crop production.  I learned how to determine the precise length of our extensive twilight zone.  I learned about all the various eclipses that will take place this year all over the world (we should be able to see a partial solar eclipse on May 20th), how to predict earthquakes, and helpful hints for various outdoor calamities from snake bites to bear attacks. 

All in all, it was like taking a short, very interesting class on earth science, history, astrology, astronomy, home economics and meteorology. 

Did I find what I was looking for?  I suppose my original aim of flipping through the weather section was to find some assurance that my tiny tomato seedlings and fledgling garden was going to survive to harvest time, since my own pull for summer far outweighed any practical advice I received about planting times.  So in that regard yes, I was reassured that warm days are upon us, and will likely stretch through September.  But I also got so much more than I would have found elsewhere.  Perhaps they were on to something, back in 1792, that really does stand the test of time.

Facing my tech hesitation

A while ago, I wrote a column about how heartwarming it is to see children using their imagination in a world where most of their toys involve some sort of technology. When I think of the changes technology brings, I tend to focus on children because their world will undoubtedly be very different from the one that I grew up with. But lately I have been thinking about adults and my own feelings towards technology. What will the future bring for those of us who have come to expect the world in the way we know it?

I confess that I tend to be hesitant towards technological advancement. You might even say I have a love-hate relationship with it. I choose the facets of it that I love, and reject those that I find disruptive to my own little world.

The advent of computers and communication by email were fun and easy, but I was the last person I knew to get a cell phone, and only then because I found myself alone with a broken down car on a deserted highway in the middle of the night in the rain. A nightmare for a young woman, and one that would have been far less scary if I’d had a cell phone. Needless to say, I bought one the next day and have been happy with it ever since.

When smartphones and tablets entered our world, I became a little distrustful of the new technology. It took me some time to admit that I dislike them simply because I’m afraid of the changes it has brought.

Smartphones can be incredibly wonderful. In a debate, it is useful to know what Luke Skywalker’s haircut really did look like providing instantaneous clarification to who’s right and who’s wrong. It’s nice to know the score of the game or what the weather for tomorrow will be. But I find that these little devices seem to be taking something away from the conversational flow between people. Eye contact is less, attention spans seem to be shorter, and as time goes on I fear these little screens are becoming more of a reality than the people who surround us. In our quest to be connected all the time, have we instead denied ourselves the ability to be disconnected?

That said, I am not completely oblivious to the otherwise impossible connections this technology has brought us. Skype allows me to see my family on the other side of the country. My young daughter can get face time with family members she only sees a couple times a year. Finding a good restaurant or the nearest tourist attraction is achieved with a touch of a button. It’s almost impossible to get lost when you are holding a GPS device in your hands.

When the Kindle was announced, Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos declared, “It’s important to embrace new technologies instead of to fight them.” His statement made me feel a bit sheepish, as that is sometimes just how I feel. And while I initially resisted getting an e-reader, saying that I preferred the feel of a real book in my hands, once I actually got a Kindle I was delighted with the technology that gave me an endless library of books at my fingertips.

I never used to consider myself old-fashioned, and even now I bristle at being characterized as someone who doesn’t like technology. I applaud what technology has done for science and medicine and even entertainment. I love the ability to have my family and friends an easy phone call away. My hesitation, like many others, is rooted in a sort of fear of the unknown. I fear that the advancements will irrevocably alter the importance of some of the things I grew up with.

I know that eventually, each new technology that comes around will at some point probably become indispensable to me like the cell phone did, and I will undoubtedly love it and wonder how I ever got on without it. Perhaps my glacial pace for accepting these seemingly radical changes to my way of life will somehow prepare me better for when I finally do jump on the technological bandwagon.

Previously published in "The Star," Grand Coulee, Washington. May 2, 2012