Fall in!

Melissa and I were finishing a late supper when I looked out the kitchen window and said, "Uh oh, I don't think we'll be walking the dogs tonight. We're going to get a storm."
"Mom, it's not going to storm. It's dark because it's nighttime."
OK, so did you know that one major characteristic of alcoholics is denial? And deny I did.
"It can't be dark out yet. It's too early. We're getting a storm."
"Check the Weather Channel," Melissa said confidently.
"I will!" I blustered.
Approximately 15 seconds later my bluster was crushed by the unarguable logic of the stupid Weather Channel radar. And the listing of sunrise and sunset times.
But denial doesn't die that easily. "How can it be getting dark so early? It's only..."
Only almost October. Right.
So Indy and I set out for a walk under a cloudless indigo sky and the nightlight glow of our wonderful old globe-shaped streetlights. The air was cool, soft and sweetened with the scent of dry leaves. Indy was wildly impatient to get under way, having watched Melissa and Saira (her beagle) set out full minutes ahead of us, so the first few blocks were spent trying to hold him to a reasonable pace and pausing to scoop up his, uh, expressions of excitement.
When Indy finally slowed to a brisk, forward-leaning trot, I had time to marvel at how quickly summer had yielded to fall. One day it was 90 degrees, the next day it was 60. This was no gradual change of seasons. Maybe that's why I'm still reeling.
Walking in the fall is 180 degrees different than walking on summer evenings. The streets are quiet. No kids biking, skateboarding, or chasing one another across fresh green lawns. People have their lights on, which I appreciate, because I like to glance into houses as I walk past. Every home is a story being written, a complex history as rich and full as our own. It's easy to forget that everyone is the star of their own play. Those cursory glances at what other people are watching on TV, or what they choose to hang on their walls, reminds me that my life is one molecule in a picture too big for tiny me to comprehend. And I find that comforting.
Walking in the night awakens a particular loneliness I can't imagine a cure for. I'm not lonely for any one person or any particular place. This loneliness evaporates the minute I see my house waiting, welcoming, in the near distance.
I miss summer, but it's kind of a relief to see it end. Summer always yanks at my sleeve, reminding me that unless I'm at the beach or licking an ice cream cone or walking with Indy, I am wasting valuable, fleeting moments of an all to short season. DO SOMETHING! Summer yells.
Fall, on the other hand, says, "Relax. Check out those beautiful leaves. Pull on a warm sweater and curl up with a good book."
Summer is a small, yappy dog who's a lot of fun but wears you out. Fall is a big, gentle mutt, content to meander and take frequent naps.
Lucky for we who live in a place with distinct seasons, we get to enjoy the company of both.

Rev. Jones vs. Christianity

As of this writing the Rev. Terry Jones, the Florida preacher who spearheaded a plan to have a Quaran burning on the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, has decided not to follow through with his plan.
Whew.
I've been worrying about this insane event all week, imaging the potential havoc that could be wreaked following such a blatantly disrespectful - dare I say sinfully disrespectful? - attack on another culture's most sacred text.
In my darkest thoughts I surmised that maybe that was Jones' plan, to provoke the radical Muslim faction and then, after another tragedy on American soil, point his holier than thou finger and preach the gospel of "I told you so."
Burning copies of the Quaran has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with narrow minded, self-righteous bigotry. Seems to me if you're a person of true faith, whether Christian, Muslim or Buddhist, your most sincere wish would be for peace. Peace for everyone, whether or not they pray to the same higher power you do.
Few things raise my hackles more than folks of any sect who believe that their way of believing is the only way. Some of them pity you for not seeing the light - their light. Others stand above you on what they believe is a moral high ground.
Whatever, folks.
I believe in a higher power. My belief system is a joyful blend of Christianity and Buddhism, and as I work at deepening my connections to both, my life is taking some unexpected and amazing turns. Little gifts are presenting themselves. My soul feels more expansive. I feel more at peace, quicker to forgive, a tad slower to anger.
I'll take this spiritual peace, along with a healthy dose of tolerance, over all the fire and brimstone Rev. Jones has to offer.
I think Rev. Jones is afraid. Intolerance and anger are often simply masks for fear of the unknown. As a man of God, would Jones come to the aid of a fellow human in need regardless of their religion? Wouldn't that be the Christian thing to do?
There are, unquestionably, radical factions in this world who despise us and want to destroy us. We need to be vigilant and protect our country and countrymen. But how is the cause of peace advanced by defiling another culture's most revered holy book? Where is the Christian love in that? Where is the plain human decency? Maybe Rev. Jones needs to examine his own sins before he condemns an entire culture in the name of his god.
OK, I'm finished. My sermon is over. Go in peace to love and serve ... Whoever you believe in.

Eat, pray, READ

I maybe could have handled it if they'd cast someone else. Kate Hudson, perhaps, or even Cameron Diaz. But the minute I heard that Julia Roberts was cast to play author Elizabeth Gilbert in the film version of Gilbert's book "Eat, Pray, Love" I knew I wasn't going to be buying a ticket.
The whole idea of making the wildly popular book into a movie was a dubious prospect from go. Most of the action in the book transpires in Gilbert's head, particularly the "pray" section. So how, I wondered, could that be accurately portrayed on film?
Then I saw the previews and realized how: cliches and gimmicks. Julia as Elizabeth tumbles from her bike and is swept up by her lover-to-be. That isn't the way they really met, but why let reality get in the way of a good story, right?
In fact, having seen several clips from the film, I find it almost unrecognizable when compared to the book. The old school of "Let's take a great book, throw it in a blender, add some big stars, and simplify it for the easy digestion of the audience."
Ok, I'll admit to making sweeping judgments about a film I haven't seen. But I've seen enough movies based on books I loved that were either dumbed down or rewritten beyond recognition by filmmakers who either underestimated their audience's intelligence or wanted to turn the movie into their own creative statement.
Another case in point: the new film "Beezus and Ramona." Anyone who's ever read even one of the beloved series of books authored by Beverly Cleary knows that Ramona was not a little princess wanna be, and Beezus was no adoring, indulgent big sister.
What makes the "Ramona" books so endearing is the way they capture the irritations, pleasures and misunderstandings of family life. It's real. Parents quarrel and lose jobs, pets die, siblings battle. But in the end the message is always the same: families struggle together, grow together and, above all, love one another through thick and thin.
I hope that children who see the cutesied-up version of Cleary's stories will pick up the books and not quickly put them down because they don't resemble the movie. I hope they'll recognize themselves and come back for more.
I wish the same for those who see "Eat, Pray, Love," and for anyone who ever saw a movie based on a book, ever. No matter how amazing the film adaptation of a book may be, and some truly are glorious visual tributes to the originals, there's nothing like the movie screen of one's own imagination to bring characters and events to life in the most vivid, memorable - and personal - light.

Traverse City North

It's not as if I don't realize how unreasonable I'm being. I just want Marquette to become a more vital, job-accessible city, and not change one iota in the process.
So Indy and I were strolling along, rejoicing in the newly cool, dry air. As we approached Mattson Lower Harbor Park I tried unsuccessfully to ignore the scraped-clean earth boxed in by an ugly chain link fence locked with a seriously thick chain and heavy-duty padlock.
"Coming in 2011" the sign bragged about the soon to be built hotel. I stared over the fence and construction equipment, wondering how much longer I'd be able to view Lake Superior from that spot. Resentment is a tough lump to swallow and it leaves a bitter taste. I tried to keep in mind that this hotel would attract tourists and create jobs, but overriding that was the thought that a handful of rich guys were tearing up the lakefront in order to make themselves even richer.
As I walked away I knocked my hand against the orange plastic fence blocking off the lot next to the chain-link imprisoned area. The sudden "ow" and the tiny mark on my knuckle felt like a rebuke. You can't fight progress.
Over the years I've heard people grumble that developers are "turning Marquette into another Traverse City." I've never been to Traverse City, but that doesn't sound like the worst proposition in the world. More shops (maybe a Barnes and Noble to console us after the loss of B Dalton), more entertainment venues, more entertainment.
I can hear you already. Yes, that would mean more changes to the city I don't want changed. But here's a crazy thought: how about making use of existing buildings instead of constantly tearing up the landscape with newer, sleeker, less attractive constructions? The downtown area is small-town cozy and welcoming, yet buildings stand empty while white siding mini malls pop up like dandelions all over town.
And while I'm ranting, how about trying to attract more industry instead of building fancy condos most of the population can't afford?
I love Marquette. It's friendly, beautiful, and as comfortable as my favorite sweatshirt. It's not that I'm resistant to changes in my city, really. I'd just like to see them made for the good of many instead of a few.

Rocking out, Mom style

So I stayed up past my bedtime again, knowing full well that it would take at least two days to recover from such wild hedonism. And it did. It's actually been three days, and I'm not even sure I've completely recovered.
I went to the Wild Rover on Friday night with my friend Jan to watch this awesome band perform: Dan Daniels and the Southern Gents. I may be a tad prejudiced in my assessment. I happen to be the mother of Dan Daniels.
The Rover is a restaurant by day, bar by night. We got there around 9, when things were still in restaurant mode. In keeping with the night's theme of "So what if I feel like crap tomorrow," I ordered a little delicacy known as Irish nachos. That would be homemade potato chips languishing under a thick blanket of melted cheddar, garnished all over with tomato and green onion, all accompanied by a side of sour cream for dipping.
When I ordered the waiter asked me what kind of meat I wanted on my nachos. "None," I replied, feeling marginally virtuous. Those cheese slathered, deep fried taters may be glistening with grease and sparkling with salt, but by God they're meat free!
At 10 o'clock the lights were dimmed and the band took to the stage, which holds a banquet table when the Rover is in restaurant mode. Jan and I moved up front, the better to cheer the lads on and watch a roomful of adults - legally, anyway - get progressively, uh, happier.
I've seen Dan perform enough times now to not well up at the sight of him onstage, handsome, confident, joking with the audience and his bandmates. I've not, however, gotten over my amazement at his musical prowess, and that of the rest of the band. They play an eclectic mix of blues, '50s and '60s rock and their own compositions, all with lots of young-guy joy and energy.
But it's Dan who commands most of my attention, of course. I love watching him get what I call music face, that look of painful ecstasy that performers get when they're expressing the essence of their hearts and souls through their voice or instrument. I know when a song isn't going right when I see him scowl and bare his teeth in disgust. When he rises up on his toes, following the notes, or when he gives a lighthearted little kick a la Bo Diddley, I want to hold up a sign that reads, "That's my boy!"
Another band mom, Mary, mother of Matt, tapped my wrist on her way to the dance floor (location of a table for four during restaurant hours). "How often do we get a chance to dance to our own kids' music?" she called.
Good point. Before long Jan and I, along with Karleen, Dan's girlfriend, were out on the floor, too.
One gent, a stocky, thoroughly inebriated chap, stood in front of the stage throughout most of a set, expressing his appreciation for the music by shouting "Fuck you!" at random moments.
"Hey, hey, language!" Daniel chided him. "My mom's here!"
The evening was a blast from nachos to encore, a powerful rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Machine Gun."
My favorite moment occurred at the band's first break. I walked up to Dan and he smiled down at me.
"I see you got front row seats," he said.
"Are you embarrassed?" I asked, half teasing, half wondering if I was overdoing my mother of the rock god routine.
"No, I'm really glad you're here," he said, with enough warm sincerity to melt cheddar cheese over potatoes.
"So can I hug you in public?" I asked, pushing the embarrassing-mother envelope a little further.
To my surprise, Dan answered, "Of course you can. You're my mom!"
I think, of all the unexpected events and surprising scenes that can occur in a bar on any given Friday night, a loving hug between a mom and her son has got to be one of the rarest. And without question, one of the best.
We left at 1:30 a.m. When I got home my left ear was ringing and my right ear was buzzing. My back and neck ached from sitting on a hard wooden stool. I tried not to think about the fact that I had to get up in five hours to get ready to attend a recovery-oriented activity.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll is the typical nightlife trifecta. The young folks can have it. I'll take Irish nachos and motherhood with my rock 'n' roll.
And maybe a little less amplifier.

Happy Birth Day

My oldest daughter's birthday is less than a week away. The approach of each of my children's birthdays inevitably takes me back down Memory Lane to those long, long, long final days of my pregnancies. It's often said that the pain of childbirth is quickly forgotten. That's a big fat lie. You don't forget, you put it in perspective: Hours of insane pain results in a beautiful new baby. Definitely a fair exchange.
I was never one of those radiant pregnant women. I was tired, cranky, and frequently nauseated. But I was happy.
There's nothing to compare to the wonder of a first pregnancy. I remember where I was standing when I got the news: at a pay phone in a mall in Kingsford. I was selling ads for the local paper and called the doctor's office on my lunch hour to get the results. Hearing one sentence from a nurse changed my day, changed my life. When I picked up the telephone receiver I was me. When I hung it up I was me plus one. Amazing.
I talked aloud to my baby from that day on. I had an acute sense of having someone else with me at all times. I felt like a walking miracle.
My joy was tempered by moments of unbridled panic. I wasn't equipped to be anyone's mother! I liked staying up late and sleeping in. I loved spending hours curled up with a good book. Could I wilingly turn myself over to the constant demands of caring for an infant? No, probably not. I was too damn selfish. This child was doomed.
My friends who already had children assured me that I'd do just fine. Nature kicks in, they told me. It wasn't a matter of the proper mindset; good old motherly instinct would kick in by the time I held my newborn in my waiting arms.
Comforted by my friends' wisdom, I quickly found something new to panic about. I was going to expel an entire human being from my body. It was going to hurt in ways I couldn't imagine, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I'd bought my ticket and boarded the ride. There was no turning back.
By mid June I'd quit my job and become a full-time pregnant lady. The brisk walks I'd taken through the neighborhood diminished in proportion to the rising, record-breaking temperatures. My husband's sisters and sister-in-law threw me a baby shower, where I was the awkward center of attention.
Then all that remained was the waiting. I spent countless hours lying on the sofa, my soccer ball-sized midsection forming a permanent dent in the middle cushion. I watched "Desperately Seeking Susan" approximately 792 times, grateful to have a story to focus on that was pretty much the opposite of everything happening with me. Susan was a free spirit, a guy magnet - and thin.
By the time my due date came and went my feet were so swollen I couldn't wear any of my shoes except my sandals. I imagined my baby lolling in comfort in my stretched out uterus. Why come out when you're in a temperature controlled cocoon that transports you everywhere and delivers all your meals?
When it was finally time to go to the hospital and meet the newest Pascoe, Ron and I were still debating names for a boy. In my heart, though, I was sure my baby was a girl. Jessica.
And after a lot of floor pacing and hours of back rubs from Ron, Jessica Lyn Pascoe met the world. Tiny, pink and perfect. Worth every minute, and then some.
I'd been told in childbirth class and read in books that new mothers feel awkward and unsure of themselves. Not me. I knew this little person. She was mine. There was no way I was going to make any major mistakes.
Ah, the bliss of the young and ignorant!
But Jess survived. More than survived. She grew up into an intelligent, beautiful, talented, whimsical, bighearted, hilarious young woman. Every time I see her, or any of my children, I feel a burst of pride, a little internal skyrocket. I put these people in the world (along with their dad), but they are their own creations, their own gifts to this life.
Happy birthday, Jess. Thanks for giving me the gift of motherhood.

Digital scraps

This morning I left a voice mail for my friend Patty. We were planning to spend the afternoon precisely as we had the day before: lolling on the beach under a white-hot July sun, close enough to Lake Superior to keep ourselves comfortably wet and cool.
When she called back she was proud to report that she'd taken a new step forward in the ever-expanding world of technology: she'd learned to retrieve her cell phone voice mails!
"I deleted a bunch of them, but I kept the one you left me a couple of weeks ago when I didn't show up for breakfast. It was so sweet!"
"Well, that's nice. Thank you," I replied, wondering what I could possibly have said in that brief interlude between "At the tone, please record your message" and the point where time's up and you're disconnected in mid-sentence. Leaving messages is not my strong suit. I feel as if I'm standing alone in the spotlight and The Clock is ticking. Be informative! Be clever! Be brief! It's a lot of pressure for someone with too much emotional investment in being a wit.
I wonder if the digital age means the decline and eventual extinction of the treasure box. You know, that special drawer or container where you stash notes and cards from friends and loved ones. Not the Hallmark cards; the sticky notes and scribbled scraps you find on your kitchen table, nightstand, or desk at work, little messages that make you smile and make you want to save them for some later date when you'll be in need of a little dose of sweetness or smart-alecky humor.
My own digital treasure box is filling rapidly. I save texts from my friends and my kids until my phone informs me that the virtual filing cabinet is full. Something has to go. When this happens I scroll through my favorite messages with the solemn gravity of a Supreme Court judge.
"Moose ... moose," sent by my daughter Jess on Feb. 18. A hilarious message with a history if you're a Pascoe. Keep or delete? Let's see what else there is before we announce a ruling.
"Whts gud lilmama Mr. LeBlue." A cryptic message from an unknown sender that jolted me awake at 4:06 a.m May 24. An interesting bit of anonymous cyber-debris. Kind of like finding someone else's grocery list in your shopping cart.
"I'm a balloon guy. You know what I say? I say "gimme a balloon!" Sent by my son, Daniel, way back in August. Conveys no practical information but is one of our favorite George Carlin quotes.
"I am safe, mama! God is with me ... he's quite the backseat driver!" A message of reassurance sent last summer by my daughter Melissa, the newly-minted licensed driver.
Yes, this is what it's come to: ephemeral digital scribbles held in pocket-sized devices, available for rereading at the touch of a button.
It's kind of sad. Texts lack the intimacy of the handwritten note. You can't appreciate the particular slant of the author's handwriting, the wrinkled paper that softens a tiny bit more each time you unfold it. You don't have that happy miser feeling of lifting a lid or opening a drawer and seeing those little scraps of love and laughter, all meant for your eyes alone.
But when I need a little lift in my day all I need do is flip open my phone. There they are, arranged by time and date. Digital evidence that people want to chat with me, share with me, make me smile, let me know I'm loved.
The verdict is in: Save them all. They're only taking up 86 percent of available space. When the inbox reaches 96 percent full gud lilmama will have to go.