Shannon Costello

She pulled in to the spot next to me as I was getting out of the car.  She was driving a red minivan and there was a baby carrier in the back seat.  We looked at each other through our windows, as if we were somehow familiar, and then I got out of the car and went inside.  I only needed sour cream.

Suddenly, she was beside me in line.  “Excuse me, I just had to talk to you,” she said.  She is from Brazil and lives down the street from me- we had a single conversation -in Spanish- well over a year ago.”I remember you wanted a baby,” she said.  “I wanted to tell you…” her English was a little awkward.  “…then one day I get pregnant, but…” she made a gesture, as of something coming out quickly.  “I’m so sorry,” I said.  “But look,” she continued, and pulled aside the blanket.  I saw the baby’s feet, but didn’t look any further.  “You just have to pray,” she said, and smiled.

I sobbed hard all the way home, whether because I won’t pray or because I know it just doesn’t always work that way…I don’t know which.  But something hurts.

He sends rain on the righteous and babies to wantonly wicked women.  He brings beauty out of chaos.

Looking back in my extended family history, looking at what I see today, speculating about the future- there is some wrenching pain in there, some bitter tragedy, some brokenness.  To stick with ancient history (to protect those of us who are living) I think of Leroy, my great-uncle who died as a child, or the unnamed miscarried child buried by another grandfather…I may never know what he thought as he buried his first son while his wife lay in the hospital.  Then there is the utterly insane family matriarch who today is accused of trying to trip her brother-in-law- when they were both old.  She is also known for decamping suddenly from her son’s house, taking all the furniture with her.  This is while he was away on his honeymoon.  She is also known for being Leroy’s mother, by the way.  Again, I stick to relatively ancient history, though all of us today have been affected by the sadnesses of current generations.  At times it hurts too much to look at.

But I just spent a weekend with much of my extended family, and I see too that, like a kaleidoscope, God can also take painfully fractured splinters and put them together in a design so beautiful it brings you to tears.  The jokes between parent and child, communicated with only a few words and gestures through a crowd of people.  The way a grandchild and grandfather tear up when “their” song is played.  Forgiveness…

I selected this book with the goal of a more in-depth look at French history.  The outside of the book doesn’t excite- it looks like a densely-worded college history text (and, looking at Amazon, it has college history text prices, too!).  Also, it was written by a history professor- Frederic J. Baumgartner.

The book actually left me wanting more (despite a couple of grammatical errors, which isn’t bad for 300+ pages).  I suppose that is because I hadn’t realized the profound impact the Protestant Reformation had on 16th century France.  Once Calvin’s Institutes was translated into French (from Latin, of course), it was smuggled into Calvin’s home country.  You could get executed if you were caught with a copy.  That was early on.  By the late 16th century the country had been through multiple wars of religion.  Henry the IV was more or less the surviving claimant to the throne, but he had to convert from Calvinism to Catholicism to get it, which he did- after years of stubbornly rejecting it.  A lot of people didn’t believe it was a real conversion.  Was it?  I read faster, all anxious to find out- and he got assassinated.  Henry IV was also interesting for other reasons- he was clever with words- bon mots - and was always running after beautiful women.

Another interesting aspect of French history is how battles were fought.  Being honorable involved charging about on horseback in one’s suit of armor- it did not mean you shot at people with your gun while you stayed safely out of harm’s way.  Entire battles were lost because people felt this way!  And speaking of fighting, one musn’t forget the evolution from jousting to dueling, helped along when an earlier King Henry died as a result of one joust too many.  I think it was this particular Henry whose tomb sculptures were done by the same artist who did the work for the urn that housed his heart, traditionally buried separately.

There is this odd sense of doom when you read about the 16th century French monarchy, because you know the French Revolution is coming.  The author makes a point of tracing the development of the monarchy- I should say a philosophy of the monarchy.  Basically the king ended up with more and more authority and by 1614, to quote directly, "the society and government that would be destroyed by the French Revolution was already mostly in place."

We hiked over 70 miles this trip, 20 on a particularly grueling day.  Our destination was Easy Pass.  Elevation gain 3500 feet.  31 switchbacks.  Beautiful flowers.  Great views of the valley below, occasionally obscured by clouds that rolled in, making us feel like we were standing on the edge of nothing.

Two of the stream crossings on the way were kind of scary.  Up high the streams are cold.  Stick a bare foot in the water and it starts to hurt before five seconds are up (stopwatch timed!).  So crossing through the water is not ideal.  Many of the streams we crossed involved rushing water that looked pretty deep in spots.  Rushing water that is only a couple of feet deep is difficult to cross.  So on these particular crossings we used logs.  The first log was at least 10 feet above the water level and not at all level.  The good thing is that it was big and solid- I ended up crab-walking down and going back up on my hands and knees (my arms not liking CJ’s technique of using his arms to propel himself across).  The second log crossing was lower and shorter, so I felt comfortable walking across.

I was worried about the return trip first of all because the crossings were scary and second because it was getting late (we got back to the tent after 9, hurray for headlamps!).  The shorter log crossing did not feel walkable on the return trip- it had rained and both the log the hikers were pretty soaked.  Feeling hurried, I was about to try hanging on to the first log, while putting my feet on a second, trusting in a little spike of a branch to stop my slip.  Distances and angles were bad.  What a relief to have CJ around to veto that idea.  We ended up using the arm-propelling technique.

We were too exhausted to make dinner when we got back to the tent.  I finally stumbled over to the bear canister (had to step over FOUR logs to get to it- ow ow ow) and pulled out a couple of cookies.  I have a vivid image in my mind of CJ’s side of the tent unzipping just enough so his hand could stick out for a cookie…

On our last full day in Washington we were on route 2 meandering back to Seattle- I was driving.  We had done a seven-mile hike to a beautiful alpine lake.  I was having some digestive issues and my stomach hurt a little.  I thought it would go away.  We were waiting in a long line of cars in one of those special one-lane construction delay areas that national parks and forests are so fond of.  I thought I was feeling a little achy- could I possibly have a fever?  We got through the delay and I was still feeling kind of bad.  Finally I told CJ I thought we’d better pull over.  And then, apparently, I passed out, while driving at 60 mph.  Our rental car, an HHR, does not provide easy access to the brake from the passenger side.  Fortunately my foot was not on the accelerator and CJ was able to grab the wheel and, later on, reach down and press the brake.  I came to just as we pulled over, amazed and pleased that we had found a spot to pull over so quickly…

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I am periodically amazed at the impact of geography.

The state of Washington is split by the Cascade Range.  We started our trip on the west side, flying into Seattle.  Seattle (just like the town of Forks, which is west of Seattle, for all you Twilight, er, fans) is known for being rainy.  I was all excited by terms like “temperate rain forest” and “wetland forest” and forgot the rather obvious implication that I should expect rain most days.

The visual impact of a wetland forest is pretty stunning.  Forest floors generally have brown- think carpets of pine needles, mats of dried leaves.  On a hike in the Horseshoe Bend of the Mount Baker Wilderness Area, only the trail was brown.  Everything else, even the enormous dead logs, was covered by a very thick carpet of dense green moss.  The ferns are huge, at least five feet tall in some cases.  The tree branches are festooned with Old Man’s Beard lichens.  Think Dumbledore’s beard in a shade of pale green and you have the general idea.  Oh, and the slugs are gargantuan.  Banana slugs up to ten inches long and some other very dark-colored slug.  It was an amazingly beautiful hike, and all by a loudly rushing, icy cold river.

The rain wasn’t a big deal.  It usually stopped at some point and was rarely heavy.  You didn’t notice how much you were missing the sun until you got to the eastern side of the Cascades, in our case via highway 20 through Washington Pass.  Warm, yellow, sunshiny happiness!

Of course the Methow Valley, for example, looks almost desert-like in comparison.  There are lots of low scrubby bushes.  The hills are a dull green.  The patches of real green are the parts that have been irrigated…Wenatchee, Washington (still on the east side!) is the apple capital of the country.

It’s not fair to ignore the higher elevations here.  Think 60 day growing season.  We saw lilies poking up out of the snow, which was UNUSUALLY DEEP for this time of year.  Try crossing an avalanche field in sandals sometime.

So, Young Adult fiction, tourism, agriculture….geography must matter in ways I never began to grasp in school.

I tell people that I am in the process of learning to deal with not having children.  With that in mind, I want to be able to talk about it relatively casually.  What I haven’t learned is how to do that.  Sometimes I find myself making bitter little comments while talking to my co-workers.  Or, more rarely, I will say something about it and find myself crashing into the brick wall of my own emotions.

It’s just a sensitive issue for everyone.  For me as the childless woman, and for the mother of (fill in number) I’m talking to who may feel guilty for talking about her children or be unsure of how to express her sympathy.  So I want to learn how to talk about it compassionately…which I hope is possible.  Sometimes I’m afraid it should just be swept into a corner because our culture is uncomfortable dealing with that sort of thing.

I was having those funny half-dreams one has when one is hovering between sleep and wakefulness, and I pictured myself with a baby, but both of us were made of glass.  At the time I figured that was a perfect picture- glass figures are pretty and feel very solid, but it doesn’t take all that much to shatter them- such can be my emotional state.

Naturally when I fell asleep I dreamed that I really did have a child.  Somehow I managed to give birth during second block, in between teaching classes.  Not quite sure where I stored the baby when I went back to work…in the book room closet, perhaps?

Along the top of the garage door and by the side of the house are two wasp’s nests- mud tunnels about six inches long and a half-inch wide.  These wasps look particularly horrifying as they hover threateningly, landing gear extended.  I decided to ask google how to best get rid of them.

Turns out these guys are known as organ pipe mud daubers, due to the nature and shape of their nests.  Females work on individual nests while the males stand guard.  Once a chamber is complete the female hunts down some spiders, paralyzing them with her venom.  Once she has an appropriate number of carcasses in a chamber, she lays an egg and proceeds to make another chamber.  Mud daubers are not supposed to be aggressive.  This was fascinating- I felt stirrings of sympathy.  Perhaps I would leave them alone.

No, I decided this morning.  I don’t trust wasps.   And what do I care for some scientist’s definition of aggressive?  He or she is certainly biased in the wasps’ favor.  And so, armed with an empty Goya strawberry soda bottle, I opened the front door, jabbed the nest, and slammed the door, though not before I saw the nest crumple to the ground and a wasp come boiling out.

An hour later I opened the door again.  There was a wasp flying- ahhh!  I slammed the door.

This afternoon I took my life in my hands and ventured out once more.  A brand new nest has been built, about six inches long and a half-inch wide.

I just don’t see how I’m going to get the recyclables out to the foot of the driveway.  Makes my skin crawl to even think of the attempt.  Fortunately I have enough food to last a couple of days at least.