Ginger Snapped

You've waited. And waited. And waited. Biding your time through June. July. August. Day to day, week to week, month to month, tending to immediate needs: food, clothing, shelter. You knew that the time would come. Soon. And now it's here. The blank canvas of a day. School's in session, and the words you've kept at bay all summer are ready to burst forth out of their dam, flooding onto the page. Hallelujah.

Oxford, England

Plymouth, MA

At the fervent request of the youngest gingerbread boy, you make your semi-annual foray into the jungle that poses as your garden, bearing no fewer than three different types of clippers. Clover, black-eyed Susans, and lily-of-the valley compete for real estate under forsythia, snowball bush, lilac, and some kind of thorny thing. But over, around, above, through, and under is The Beast. Once upon a time, some past homeowner thought it was a good idea to plant The Beast, a leafy green thing that sends out runners and tendrils and grows at an astronomical pace. Turn your back, and the thing will have a death grip around your neck. You do battle with it twice a year, cutting, hacking, ripping until it appears submissive. It never is. Before you know it, The Beast is back in full force, threatening your patio, your bench, the grill, the ENTIRE BACKYARD. So you pull out your clippers and do battle. It's starting to get the better of you. You bring the cuttings down to the ...

You spend the school year feeding your tribe. It seems like all you do is pack lunches and make dinners. But that’s not entirely true—you also spend a great deal of time in the car and quizzing math facts and helping create a whale-on-stilts costume. You attend concerts and track meets and recitals and musicals and field trips. And you write. You revise. You revise some more. You revise until you're sick of revising. By the end of the year, you are drained. Bone-dry drained. Nothing left drained. Drain-o drained. You need to feed your soul. So you go to Istanbul. You see the Hagia Sophia. You see the Blue Mosque. You visit a Turkish bath. You eat something called "The Imam Fainted." You climb a mountain and visit a monastery. You bike around an island. You go to Greece. You see the Parthenon. You visit the Delphic Oracle. You climb to more monasteries. You swim in the Aegean sea. You loved Istanbul and you loved Greece, but you come home and still feel dr...

Noryangjin Fish Market, Seoul, South Korea

Basilica Cistern, Istanbul not Constantinople

First you pack the granola bars. Then the marshmallows, graham crackers, chocolate, snacks, and mini boxes of cereal just like any self-respecting mother would do. (Right?) You grab boxes of crackers and pasta and cans of tuna and kippers. You take peanut butter and plan on packing the fruit and vegetables tomorrow. Though you've hardly been home this summer, you are looking forward to leaving once more. There's a cabin in the woods where you will unplug and unwind. A cabin in the woods without wifi, cell phone access, telephone, tv. There is, however, electricity and hot water and a fire pit. There's a tree house and a canoe. There's an old, old refrigerator and a half-stove, together with a conglomeration of cutlery and kitchen goods. There's Othello and Battleship and cards. You're packing your knitting and some Rafael Sabatini novels. Nothing like a little swashbuckling by firelight. This is summer.