Ginger Snapped

The house: Water filtration system is now in. There’s no arsenic, but the tank leaks. The driveway is scheduled to be sealed. Two estimates for some window replacements are scheduled for the windows that have somehow rotted out. The Persian rugs have been rolled up and stored at your mother-in-law’s house. The family photos have been removed from the hallway. The house is slowly becoming renter-ready, if only you had a renter to rent it. The documents: All birth certificates and marriage certificates must have an apostille. Originally, you thought that meant a certified copy with a raised seal. Um, no. That would be too easy. An apostille is a document certifying the authenticity of said document in question with a signature, a raised seal, stapled with the flap open, and stamped across the flap—all obtained from the original state the document was processed. You have received your birth certificate with apostille, but you still await two more birth certificates and a marriage cert...

You have lost count of how many loads of laundry you have done today. You have also lost count how many times you’ve driven past that pond where the geese and goslings are on your way to and from town. In fact, you’ve lost count of what day it is and who you are; you’re simply going on autopilot according to the beefy to-do list you made yesterday for this week: one graduation, one piano recital, one band concert, one car maintenance appointment, one doctor’s appointment, two dentist appointments, four houseguests, one meeting, one book club Skype visit, a road trip to Massachusetts to pick up restored paintings, a senior awards night, four band rehearsals, a festival, a silent movie, a cook-out, a restaurant or two, a seminary graduation, and some sheer panic, and that about sums it up for this week. Besides the grocery shopping. There’s that, too. Next week brings three more doctor’s appointments for various family members in Campaign Let’s All Be Healthy Before We Leave, and a tri...

You are making progress. Slowly. So slowly. Birth certificates with apostilles. Marriage certificate with an apostille. Copies of passports. Appointments with the Austrian consulate. Emails. Phone calls. And home school. You’re reading Homer’s Odyssey  with the gingerbread offspring, and you feel a kinship with such a traveler. But you haven’t even reached the part where Odysseus makes his entrance. You’re still in Book IV, and you’re supposed to be starting Shakespeare in June. Oof. Maybe by the time you’re finished, you’ll also be ready to begin traveling. You did make quinoa for dinner tonight, and that’s using up some of your pantry items. That’s about as good as it gets right now. Small victories, one grain of quinoa at a time.

Jules Verne insisted that one could circumnavigate the globe in 80 days. The youngest gingerbread offspring must have picked up on this vibe today, because he asked if you could go to Azerbaijan. When you responded that perhaps you could just start with Austria, he smiled. And then asked if you could fly to Iraq. Austria first, please? “Maybe Uruk?” he asked. This is what comes of reading The Tale of Gilgamesh for homeschooling. Yesterday when you returned home from family camp, the obvious quiet coming from the chicken coop concerned you. Sure enough, when you went to check the chickens, they were all victims of a local criminal—probably of the fox variety—and it makes you sad, even if you hadn’t been to visit them in a while. The backyard feels empty now. You went to the police station today—not to report the fox, but to get a letter stating that you have no criminal record so you can have an official piece of American bureaucracy to show to the Austrian government for thei...

You count. There are 81 days until you leave for Vienna. 81 days to finalize schooling for the younger gingerbread offspring. 81 days to find a renter for the house. 81 days to clean out the attic, basement, and office. 81 days to eat all the random pantry items (e.g., sesame seeds, canned green chiles, red lentils, sushi rice, lots of table salt). 81 days to figure out what is essential to bring (favorite kitchen knife, garlic press, earplugs? Are there earplugs in Austria?), what can be purchased there (exercise ball? Instant Pot? Earplugs?), and what you can live without (an oven, since the apartment that will become home doesn’t have one, but it does have a rooftop terrace, so.). 81 days to prepare the older gingerbread offspring for college (send him with earplugs). The square root of 81 is 9, and the square root of 9 is 3, which is the number of Johnsons who will be living in Vienna. Which is also probably how time will pass. 81 days will suddenly turn into nine days, which w...

Each morning, you stand by the window watching your boys until they're on the bus or picked up. You watch them leave your circle of safety and hope for the best. You can't know what that day will bring. Nothing, maybe. Or maybe a bomb threat. Maybe a math test. Maybe a lockdown drill. Or maybe a real lockdown. But on this day, there is something different. A rally. A walk-out. A demonstration. Your oldest son asked if you'd call to have him dismissed and bring him downtown to attend the demonstration. You want your voice to be heard, and even more, you want your son's voice to be heard, so you call the school, you pick him up, you drive downtown. You don't know what to expect, but the reality makes you weepy. A crowd of teenagers, many carrying hand-drawn signs stand gathered in front of the church, chanting. Adults congregate around the edges. A band plays, keeping time for the chants. Horns honk as their drivers show support. One man in a truck wags his fi...

When you board the bus, it is dark out. You are in New Hampshire. When you exit the bus, it is broad daylight. You are in New York. After dropping off your suitcase, you head toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and it occurs to you that you have stepped into the character of Claudia Kincaid in one of your favorite childhood books,  From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler . You just lack a younger brother with a card habit and pockets full of change. You take the B line north and you find that your past makes you strangely comfortable on the subway, and you silently thank your grandparents for the millionth time for that summer in London when you were fearless at thirteen and navigated your way through the underground on a daily basis. It has triumphed over your adult self full of uncertainty and fear. You are hustled up the stairs by the crush of crowds, and you find yourself curious about them. You hear snippets of conversations: "A hundred-thousand......