Bed Hopping

Sleeping Beauty - Eloise napping after Dinner

There's nothing better than a comfortable bed. Except a REALLY comfortable bed!

So when I prepared to leave the soft sheets and blankets of my king-sized nest to spend the Holidays with my family, I was disappointed to find I couldn't get a good night's sleep for almost two weeks prior to my departure.

Pre-vacation lists and anxieties stole my peace. None of my usual calm-me-down routines worked; trading red wine for Sleepytime tea, drops of lavender on the pillow… I knew I'd be bed hopping for the entire Holidays and wanted to clock some Zzzzz before I left.

With less than two hours sleep the night before we flew to London, I staggered onto the plane looking like death warmed over. Excuse the gruesome simile but it was that bad.

I got no sleep on the plane (that's another story) so when I arrived at my sister Sue's house in Surrey, around 9 a.m., I almost cried when she suggested I stay awake until 9 p.m. GMT to face down jet lag. I stared into my coffee mug. My circadian rhythms had gone up the spout weeks ago and I just wanted a bed – any bed.

"I can't do it," I groaned. "I'm going to fall over if I don't get some sleep."

"Then just an hour," Sue warned. "You have to get your body clock in synch or you'll be jet lagged for a week."

My nephew's bottom bunk bed had never looked so good. I flopped under the comforter and was immediately unconscious. When my alarm woke me to the melodious tones of Apologize I felt better, until I stood up. The room started spinning and I wondered how I'd ever make it through the rest of the day.

Coffee, wine, British biscuits and not-seen-you-in-four-years catch up conversation did the trick. Before I fell back into my nephew's bed at 11 p.m., a melatonin melting in my mouth, I took a few moments to stare at the luminescent stars he'd stuck on his ceiling and walls. They were truly relaxing. I felt grateful to him for rolling out his sleeping bag on the floor next to his parents' bed so that I could have a bed to sleep in.

I spent two nights in his single bunk before heading North to my mother's house in Shropshire, where a full sized bed awaited me, until Christmas Eve. My mum had bought a memory foam topper earlier that day and we flopped around like fish trying to unroll it, then cover it with fresh sheets.

"What's that smell?" I asked. 

She glanced at the freshly painted chest of drawers beside the door. "I had an onion in here earlier but it smelled awful so I took it out."

I opened the window and hoped the smell would be gone before bedtime. After too much wine I didn't care about the gloss paint aroma that filled the bedroom. It was only when I lay down that I discovered another, more pungent smell. It wasn't the lavender I'd generously dropped on the pillow – this was a chemical concoction.

"Allow foam mattress to air out for at least 24 hours before using," stated the instructions.

Bedroom Office

I swung open all the windows, loaded up the blankets and tried to ignore the howling winds swooping through the trees. I felt like I was in Wuthering Heights. Around 3 a.m. I gave up trying to sleep and turned on the laptop my sister Jackie had loaned me. I answered emails, designed layout pages for this Winter issue and synched photos from my cell phone to an external hard drive that contained ALL the docs I didn't want to lose should my house burn down while I was away.

"Did you sleep well?" my mum asked when I shuffled into the kitchen to get coffee.

"Bit windy," I replied. "Do you still have onions?"

After three nights the smell began to clear up. My sister Sue was arriving to take over the room so I packed my case and wheeled it around the corner to my sister Jackie's house.

As her bedrooms were already full with family my bed for the next two nights was in the middle of the dining room. I unrolled the brand new Aerobed and plugged in the pump.

"Charge pump for 24 hours before using." Seriously?

The Aerobed fit snugly between the wooden desk and round dining table. I soon surrendered to its surprisingly solid comfort. 

When I woke up Christmas morning it was almost 9:30 a.m. and not a soul was stirring in the house. By 10 a.m. the living room was crowded with family scarfing down croissants and sipping Bucks Fizz.

The festivities flowed into the night and right through the next day with a family meal at Atcham's historic Mytton and Mermaid.

Old Atcham Bridge, Shropshire

The River Severn had busted her banks and was charging just below the roof of Atcham Bridge outside the windows. The whole country was flooding, but inside we were warm, loud and very happy to be together for the first time in years.

One more night on Jackie's dining room floor then I was wheeling my case back to my mum's house. Eau de gloss paint still lingered in the air but the foam mattress smell was gone. 



I fell asleep thinking about the family gathering scheduled for the next day. It had been eight years since I'd seen my dad (he was still living in Africa the last time I was in England) and we'd planned a pot luck family reunion.

The afternoon with my dad and his Nigerian side of our family was loud and heartwarming. We took photos and promised to post them on Facebook. Tears flowed as family began to disperse to their homes across England. I couldn't believe it was over.

Bramble Cottage,  England

My case was packed for a night at Bramble Cottage, also in Atcham, where my brother Steve was staying with his family. The drive from my dad's house to the cottage was terrifying as Steve had inherited my dad's need for speed along the winding country roads.

After sharing hilarious tales over Jagermeister served in egg cups (no shot glasses to be found), I set up the Aerobed mattress in the conservatory, one of the 'newer' quarters of the ancient building. I tried to sleep but the walls were creaking. This was the only night sleeping over with my brother's family and I was already missing them. I was woken up at 4 a.m. by a strange sound. I peered into the darkness and saw nothing but a red EXIT sign.

Seconds after I lay back down a long sigh was exhaled about two feet over my face. I screwed up my eyes, ducked under the quilt and hid from whatever was hovering over me. I didn't come up for air until daylight.

"Of course the place is haunted," my brother scoffed. "It was built in the 1700's."

After our goodbyes I settled in for two more nights at my mum's. I spent much of the day designing pages for this Winter issue. It felt good to be reconnected with my American world while sipping tea under the thrashing rain on the roof of my mother's ghost-free conservatory.

BFF Arlene, BEST Indian food EVER& wine!

On December 30th I packed up again and headed North to Scotland for New Year's Eve with my long-time friend and U.S. traveling companion, Arlene.

I had a choice of beds in Edinburgh. My mum, my sister and I had rooms at Arlene's mother's house while my sons were staying with Arlene and her two much younger boys. 

I ended up staying at both places over our four-night visit because while I appreciated the quieter option of Betty's home, I also wanted a night to catch up with Arlene. 

This meant a conversation marathon at her kitchen table until 3 a.m., resumed over coffee by 9 a.m. the next morning.

I slept on a futon at Arlene's house, nestled in the middle of what had been her sons' bedroom until the day before, and was now in transition to becoming the home office.

I stared up at shelves crammed with books, files and papers, my head inches from a large wooden desk (déjà vu). The only remnants of the children were found in the seasonal mural still claiming the top half of the twenty-foot high walls.

My last night in Edinburgh was spent at Betty's house with my mum and Jackie, after a wonderful bonfire in Arlene's garden with fish and chips for dinner. The perfect way to end our trip.

As I sat in my seat on the plane from Edinburgh to Gatwick, I thought about all the beds I'd slept in and how different they'd been. No matter how little room a family had, they'd rearranged their own nests to make room for us. I was content to lie down wherever I landed, grateful for the hospitality and the company of so many familiar faces.

No matter where I was, I was home, secure in the bosom of family and friends that I don't see enough of.

The first night back in my own bed was amazing. I'd become so used to twin beds and mattresses on floors that I didn't move an inch all night. I woke up to my cat, Travis, stretched out next to me.

Welcome home!

This post was originally published as a Life Stories article in the Winter 2013 issue of CapeWomenOnline.com magazine

"Home Again Home Again Jigetty-Jig"

I can't tell you how many times I've announced these words to my living room - it's one of my favorite lines from the movie Bladerunner. (And you thought I was going to say "Mother Goose" didn't you?)

My other favorite quote from this haunting movie is when Rutger Hauer's line “I've seen things you people wouldn't believe.... All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain... Time to die."

Perhaps that's why Twitter and Facebook are so important to us all these days...they are ways to memorialize those moments in our lives that we just don't want to lose. I don't have a personal Facebook page because I know I'd never be off it. My CapeWomenOnline magazine Facebook page is all I can cope with, but I do have a Twitter account: https://twitter.com/capecodnic 

My twitter profile shares another favorite quote, this time from T.S. Eliot: "They make noises, and think they are talking to each other...is that a delusion?...Remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger."

Is that all we're doing? Making noises? Is anyone even listening? 

 

I visited my dad in Nigeria when I was sixteen and Blade Runner was the only video that worked on his ancient VCR player. The Television was so crap that all we had to watch was this video...over and over again. These lines have stayed with me...funny how words define moments that then follow us around for the rest of our lives.

I saw my dad for the first time in eight years over the Holidays - it was wonderful. We chatted away in his kitchen as if a day hadn't passed beteween us. That's the beauty of family - you just cut through the bullshit and get right down to the business of talking - I mean REALLY talking. 

Of course the night ended in tears when we had to say goodbye too soon. I have no idea when I'll see my dad, his wife, or my two half-sisters again. But I do know that our one evening together was enough to reconnect us.

I have MANY digital images and a few videos of our visit (the wonders of technology) but more importantly I have their voices echoing around my head. Phantoms of memory blending with desire to return sooner rather than later this time.

Sometimes words are just letters all jumbled up together - but sometimes they are all we have to remind us of how lucky we are to have family to go home to.  

"Home again, home again, jiggety-jig..."

 

MIA?

Almost a year since my last post? Well, "there's a reason for that" (Hale & Pace), but you'll have to wait to know why. I've been working (almost literally non-stop for 5 days) on the Spring issue of Cape Women Online magazine and it's finally ready to launch - time for some Pinot Noir and Criminal Minds!

Yes, I do know it's after midnight - but when you've been pulling the kind of hours I have, lost in utter creative chaos, then you'd understand that wine after midnight is perfectly acceptable behavior ;)

Tree House Refuge

Fern Forest Tree House, Lincoln, Vermont

When I first heard about the Fern Forest Tree House (on ABC's Chronicle) it took me seconds to get online and Google for more details. This was it! The hideout I'd been yearning for was a mere six hours drive North, into the heart of the Green Mountains of Vermont.

I'd already been searching for a writer's cabin to complete the second draft of my novel, which I'd happened to find the day before. When I discovered the tree house was off the same road as the Firefly B&B cabin I felt destiny was guiding my hand to book a spring writing retreat.

As evident from my previous entry, I made the hike North and spent four glorious days in blissful isolation. I completed my second draft and even found space in my head to write some new scenes. That was back in April - it has taken me until today, July 4th, to get back here to tell my tree house tale!

I know some people are afraid to be alone. Afraid to be disconnected from the world of cell phones, email and television. To be honest, I wasn't sure how I'd cope, especially when my cell phone lost its signal on Route 17. I had the sense, however, of being accompanied by my characters. Each one babbling like an excited child, anxious to be the first voice heard once I finally opened the document that contained their lives.

As I explain below, in my Firefly cabin entries, the writer's cabin fulfilled its promise of a completed second draft. Once I arrived at the tree house, I was completely relaxed and inspired, ready to sink into the experience of sleeping thirty feet above the forest floor.

The only way to describe this experience is to show you. Like Doctor Who's trusted Tardis, the tree house felt much bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside.

A narrow 70ft ramp led to the front door that was adorned by a Frank Llyod Wright stained glass window. Fresh picked flowers invited me into the first level. Furnished with a rocking chair, foot stool, futon couch, mini fridge and radio (that was never used), the sense of space within those light wooden walls was remarkable.

I was shown how to safely climb the ladder to the loft by my host, Harrison, who had built the tree house with his son.

The idea of hauling myself onto the queen futon bed that was nestled into the roof was amusing. The reality of negotiating the bum-to-platform-to-bed routine was a little more serious as one wrong move could have been disastrous.

The bedding was super cozy; soft flannel sheets with down comforter and pillows. Windows on two sides of the loft created the feeling of sleeping in the very heart of the trees. My only anxious moments came when little feet scampered across the roof, just a couple of feet above me. But I never once thought about going to sleep in the spare guest bed of the main house.

I joined my hosts, H and Ellie, for wine in the evening. As often happens, when I'm busy doing what I love, I met the most wonderful couple. This was an unexpected gift that settled deep into my soul. It's one of things I love most about traveling alone; meeting people who instantly felt like old friends.

When I returned to my tree top refuge it was raining. I sat on the rocking chair and listened to water dripping onto the roof, running down the wooden walls and pattering against the tall windows. I felt warmed by the electric heater, soothed by dim wall lamps and candles that cast a soft orange glow into the curious space around me.

It was so peaceful that I just sat there and listened. I could almost feel my batteries recharging as I absorbed every detail of each moment. This was the solitude I'd been craving. The space to hear nothing but rain falling from the leaves above me. To think of nothing but how relaxed I felt. So simple, yet so utterly elusive.

Just writing this takes me back there, to that moment. I can smell the damp wood, taste the Pinot Noir, feel the promise of new friendships.

This is perhaps the most remarkable gift my tree house retreat gave me; a place to escape to, in my own head, during the stress of daily life. It was less about writing, more about squeezing gaps into chaos, where I can close my eyes and feel the handmade wooden structure sway on the branches of the four maple trees that support it. Not a single day has passed that I don't draw strength from these memories. I long to go back there, and plan to, in the Fall. This time I will book more nights in tree house and pack my hiking boots.

The value of taking a time-out to decompress and regroup cannot be overstated. My spring writing retreat reminded me about the urgency of self care and the need to take your art seriously enough to dedicate time to it. Without solitude, the mind collapses into overdrive and creativity is lost in the confusion.

As I celebrate this Independence Day, I look around my beautiful garden and appreciate the fact that I can embrace the freedom to sit here, on my garden swing, and write. Not everyone has such luxury, but for those of us who do, take the time to honor your art, and yourself.

Click here to read my official retreat article in the Summer issue of CapeWomenOnline: http://www.capewomenonline.com/

Inspire Me

View of Mount Abraham from the Peeper Pond

“Nose to the grind stone” – how many times have you heard that phrase lately? I’d heard it last Wednesday – just after writing down directions from the B&B owner – the same ones I failed to follow to avoid the mud crisis I encountered while driving up here.

This phrase rang in my head while I was packing, while I was driving and while I was trying to talk myself out of working on one more chapter before taking a break yesterday. I can’t believe how much work I got done – keeping my nose to the grindstone.

After spending way too long trying to figure out how to upload my cell phone images to my lap top – then discovering the fabulous new world of USB Mass Storage transfer – I finally faced the 8 chapters I’d promised myself I’d edit before lunch. Did I say lunch? Bah! Try dinner!

It was easy, at first, perhaps because I’d already dropped into my novel by editing 2 chapters on Thursday night. The characters were up front and center in my mind, my belly full of fresh berries, Greek yoghurt and organic raisin bran, my little cabin quiet…too quiet.

I checked my email on the elusive wi-fi that dropped out every few seconds…that took a while…but it felt good to be contact with my “real life”, even if it was just through words on the screen. Back to editing…

Instead of taking the chapters in order, like I usually do, I decided to approach my 8 chapter goal from a new angle. As my story is told from two alternating points of view, I chose one POV and followed it through to the end of where my first draft abruptly dissolved into synopsis. This gave me the luxury of checking for timeline errors, continuity of the character’s moods and location verification. It also steeped me in the world of human trafficking, parched desert and the all-important ticking clock.

To say that my nerves were beginning to feel frayed is an understatement. I shifted my eyes from the words on the screen to my uninterrupted view of Mount Abraham. In addition to giving my eyes a break, this let me imagine that like my character, I too was gazing at the Mogollon Rim, which divides Arizona in two, and not the snow splattered peaks of the Green Mountains.  When I shuffled my lap top from the shrinking walls of the cabin, to the deck off the main house, I couldn’t help but notice the large cacti guarding the sliding door to the living room. Hmmm…

This editorial marathon was, I’m happy to say, punctuated with a long walk around the neighborhood.

I started out by circling the small pond in front of the main house, snapping shots of frog spawn floating among the tall yellow reeds that rustled against a perfectly blue sky. I wasn't the only one checking out the view - a family of Peepers called to each other to protest my intrusions.

My wellies squished and squelched in the mud, being two sizes too big for me (no idea how they ended up in my basement), I found it hard to walk at a decent pace.

So I settled into a slow rhythm of brain-break over cardio workout, feasting my eyes on the details of the emerging Spring.


I found a horse paddock a few houses down the dirt road, complete with ramshackle stables, multiple trucks in the unmarked driveway, and horses grazing in a mud bath deeper than their fetlocks. I won’t expand on another homestead except to say that everything including the kitchen sink was bursting out of windows, doors and toppling over the sides of a farmer’s porch. I wanted to take a photo but was afraid I’d get busted and have to explain myself to the owner…

Not quite the wild Mustangs of the West - but close enough

I get to spend all day with horses, or rather wild mustangs, now that I’m working on the second character’s storyline. If I need inspiration, I can simply stick my head out of the cabin door and inhale the manure wafting from the stables behind me.

The wind’s picking up and we are expecting the remnants of that storm that sent tornadoes tearing through Georgia yesterday. Oh goodie! Let’s hope these wooden walls don’t rattle too much, or I might find myself working on a whole new novel…

Mud Monsters

I must be in Vermont - Issy's horse barn, not the writing cabin!

Okay, so I should have followed the directions the B&B owner rattled off to me the night before I left for this writing adventure and NOT the route mapquest suggested! Don't ever attempt to take a Jetta up and over Quaker Street (coming from Rt 17) unless you want to start your retreat by having multiple heart attacks!

Mud Surfing anyone?

Seriously, I had to get out of my car at one point just to take a deep breath. That's when I snapped a shot of the deep gray turrets behind me, but they look far less menacing in my photo than they actually are. If you've never surfed atop a mud monster then I forgive you for not grasping the real terror of the last 3 miles of my journey to this secluded yet pretty cozy writer's cabin. I hope the under carriage of my car can forgive me.

The lavender oil worked wonders to dispel the Eau de Must hanging over the bed. Bringing my own king sized pillow, favorite soft blanket and little teddy helped me to finally relax enough to get some sleep, despite the patter of tiny feet over my head. I did have to brave the flash light walk across very soggy earth to the bathroom around 11pm, but it wasn't too bad. Rather than focus on the eerie shadows cast by the waxing moon, I listened to the frumping sound my wellies made in response to my sockless feet. Not heard that noise since I was a kid! Lovely!

I got two chapters edited last night, then discovered I'd been working in the WRONG version of my second draft when I attempted to email it to myself. Despite seeing letters floating across my lap top screen in triplicate, I managed to decipher exactly what and where to paste the new chapters into the correct manuscript. So glad I never delete anything - just rename the more recent version and work from that.

Talking of which, I have 8 chapters to get through before lunch. Then I'm off for a walk around this idyllic world of rolling hills edged by forests and framed by sloping mountain ridges. I was hoping to post some photo's of the red-roofed barn across the field to my left, the Quaker Street mud monsters and this morning's sun peeking over Mount Abraham - but I forgot my memory card adapter so can't upload them to my lap top. I'd text them to my email if my cell phone worked... Ah well, I can always post them when I get home, which, I'm happy to report, feels like a continent way from up here.

Here's a writer's tip for you - always hang mini chimes within earshot of your writing space. They help to access that part of your mind that's waiting to talk to you...no idea how they do it...they just seem to get beneath the clutter and strike a chord of clarity that helps the writing flow more easily. If you don't believe me - try it - then let me know how it works!

PS I figured out that if I go into my cell phone's Tools, select USB Mass Storage, I can upload my phone's images to my lap top :)

Tree Time!

So I'm all packed and ready to head up North to Lincoln, Vermont, where the roads have gone swimming and the mud is, well, I'll let you know when I get there...

The last writing retreat I gifted myself was way back in November 2009. It's about time I dropped back into my novel to wrap up this second draft. I'm halfway there, but I just can't seem get passed a couple of chapters (at the most) without getting interrupted.

No-one told me having a Senior in high school was a full-time job: college applications (with essays and references), IB coursework (Creativity, Action, Service - C.A.S.), Theory of Knowledge essay and 4,000 word Extended Essay on Communism. And that's just the school stuff...never mind the teen angst and my looming separation anxiety.

And just in case you thought it was all over when the beautiful acceptance letters rolls in...not a chance!! Then you have the FAFSA form to complete (online - not too bad), income taxes to prep and file (at least 3 weeks of work there), financial aid applications and negotiations to pursue...and it just keeps rolling on until one day, as if by magic, you're stuffing your teddy into a carpet bag, grabbing the lavender oil and Pinot Noir and mapquesting your route to another adventure with the characters currently rioting in your head.

Wonder why I jumped into third person there...dissociation? Me? NEVER!

This isn't like the last retreat, when I only drove to the other end of Cape Cod to stay at my friend's gorgeous B&B for a couple of nights. Nah, this one is "Rustic" with a capital R! Three nights in a former writer's cabin in the woods, then a night in a real shit-you-not tree house...lots of fresh mountain air...and possibly rain if the forecast is right. But I'm prepared for the bathroom treks to the main house - black rubber wellies (should look great with my multicolored cotton skirt) and an LED flashlight bright enough to fool a rooster. I'm almost over the shock of learning there's no cell phone tower - radio silence until next Monday? Not so bad, once you get used to the idea...

Well the sooner I get some ZZZzzzzzz the sooner tomorrow will come. I love the night before traveling - full of bags, boxes and multiple hard drives! Just in case my little Jetta gets swallowed up by the mud monster slithering across the northern states. Hey, it could happen...