When I was a young girl, probably nine or ten years old, my parents took my brother and I to a fair. I don’t remember which one, just that like so many there was an unending row of artisan tents to explore. People selling crafts and art in little 10×10′ tents stuffed full of their handmade wares. There was one in particular that interested me. It was a man selling wooden carvings, and in particular wooden hummingbirds. I was fascinated by their wings, tiny little wooden feathers, each one nestled into the last and each seeming to just barely be attached to the bird’s body. The effect was a spray of wooden wings that seemed to flutter before my eyes.

The artist in charge of the tent, an older gentlemen, noticed my interest in the birds, and showed me the one he was working on. He had carved the entire thing out of a single chunk of wood, including the wings. They were carved into one block, sliced, and then each slice of wing was pulled back and rested in the notch of the one before. All that was left for this bird was for the wings to be separated. To my amazement and disbelief, he handed me the incomplete bird and showed me how to pull the first feather.

I stood there for probably 45 minutes, holding my breath and separating every one of those delicate wooden feathers on that bird. When I was finished, I proudly showed my work to the old man. He praised it as a job well done, and then handed it back to me and told me that it was mine to keep. Elated, I carried my little wooden bird around for the entire rest of the fair before taking it home to hang it proudly on my bedside lamp.

Seventeen years later, I still remember that afternoon at the fair. That man allowed me into his world for a moment and showed me how to make his magic come to life with my own young hands. Seventeen years later, I still have that little wooden hummingbird. It’s traveled with me through many moves and many states, always reminding me of that day.

Yesterday, Kyle and I were at the horse track , as we do so often on our days off. Spending the warm afternoon sitting in the sun, drinking beer, and betting on the races, it’s all about relaxing. Kyle examines the racing program and strategizing our next wager, and I lounge in my chair with a friendship bracelet in progress clipped off to the arm of my chair. (Look down at my last post, I’ll explain down there.) My fingers lazily weave and flip the threads around each other, pausing frequently to wander away to my beer. I like having something for them to do, and few people seem to notice my little projects.

Except yesterday. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of two small pink-clad girls standing at my elbow. I looked up and smiled at them and said hi. The older one, mustering what looked like all of her courage, spit out, “How are you doing that?” and pointed to my bracelet. “It’s a lot of little knots over and over,” I explained. “Oh,” she said. “That’s really neat.” I looked down at my nearly finished bracelet and thought of the plentiful stockpile I had at home in my Swag Bag. “If you come back in five minutes you can have it,” I told her.

Her face immediately broke into a smile. “Okay!” she said, and ran back to her parents’ picnic table, likely to tell them her good news. I quickly finished the bracelet off in a braid, and then called her back. She looked immensely pleased as I tied it on her wrist, and admired it from multiple angles. Then she looked up. “Can my little sister have one, too?” she asked, pointing to the tiny blonde who’d been standing silently beside her. “I don’t have another one made,” I explained, “but I’ll work on a new one as fast as I can.” This agreed with her, and she nodded.

And then they stood there. Now, these bracelets are easy to make, and I can usually knock one out in an hour or two, but it wasn’t the type of thing that I thought they’d want to hang around for. “It’s going to take me a while,” I told them, giving them permission to leave and go back to their table, but neither moved. When it became clear that they had no intention of leaving I turned to the older girl and asked her if she’d like to try it. With help she complete a stitch and handed it back to me. Then the little one spoke up for the first time, announcing that she’d like to try. She, too, managed to complete a knot with help, but when she was finished she didn’t hand the threads back. She looked at me expectantly, as if to say, “Okay, what’s next.”

And that’s how we went on for probably half an hour. The older girl talking nonstop, telling me about her dog at home and her beaded bracelets that she makes and how Mommy and Daddy “broke up” and she doesn’t get to see her favorite uncle much anymore because he’s in jail, and the little girl methodically weaving the threads. The little one couldn’t have been more than four years old but her focus on the knots were unwavering, and she managed to finish two rows that looked near as perfect as mine.

The three of us might have been able to go on this way, talking and braiding, all afternoon. The girls certainly seemed content, and though I’m not totally comfortable talking to kids (they scare the shit out of me) their excitement was infectious. But then Grandma came up and told them that it was time to go. I looked up at her, expecting to see that half-amused-half-grateful look that adults take on when another adult has gone out of their way to show kindness to their kid, but I saw nothing of the kind in her eyes. I tried to tell her that they hadn’t been a problem, that I’d enjoyed their company, but all I read in her face was, “I just don’t give a shit.” The older girl seemed disappointed, but she thanked me for the bracelet and bounded back to her parents.

But the little girl. She. Was. Pissed. As her grandmother lead her away her face was contorted into the hardness of someone who’s given of themselves and watched someone else receive the fruit of their labors. As I watched her walk away, my heart ached in a way that it usually only does for a stray cat or an empty beer fridge. “Damnit, I wish I could have finished that bracelet for her!” I said to Kyle. “You did what you could,” he said, and turned back to his racing program. He was right, of course, but I couldn’t shake that little girl’s disappointment. “I just wish I had another bracelet.”

And suddenly I realized that I did: the one I wore on my own wrist.

“I’m going to give her mine,” I said, standing up and struggling with the knot at my wrist. Freeing it, I strode over to the little girl standing in the middle of her family, knelt down next to her, and took her tiny arm to my knee. The bracelet made of pinks and greens was a bit worn from weeks at work and caching on my arm, but the way that her face exploded in a beautiful grin as I tied it on her wrist turned it into a thing of perfection in her eyes. Finishing the knot, I patted her wrist and walked away.

“Well, I feel better,” I said, sliding back into my chair. “I think she liked it.” Kyle peered over my shoulder to the little girl’s family. “Liked it?” he said. “She’s dancing around with her arm in the air. I think she liked it.”

There’s a more than excellent chance that the little bracelet I tied to her wrist was lost in a matter of days. A well-meaning parent placed it on the dresser where it was unintentionally swept away in a corner, or the swiftly-moving interests of a four-year old moved on to other pretty things. It brought her one moment of joy, and that was enough. But there’s a small chance still that it will stay with her the way that the wooden hummingbird has stayed with me. That years later, it will hold precious the memory of an afternoon when someone opened up their world to her and showed her how to make their magic come to life in her own young hands.

I’m up to 107 found geocaches.

Long way from the girl who got stuck in a bush and trespassed on the Saratoga Springs Country Club, huh?

Of course the part I love the most is the thrill that comes from finding a particularly sneaky cache. The relief and excitement when I catch that first glimpse of the container, when it finally comes into focus and I actually see it for the first time despite having stared right at it for the last ten minutes…it’s an amazing feeling. And forever walking by that spot and knowing that there’s a secret hidden there that the rest of the world passes by gives me the inside wiggles.

But there’s a secondary part to geocaching that I also really dig.

Swag.

Caches come in all shapes and sizes, from the smaller than my last pinkie knuckle to a 50-caliber ammunition canister. In any caches that’s large enough to accommodate it, cachers are encouraged to leave or exchange swag. Swag can be almost anything that fits inside the cache. McDonald’s toys are popular swag, but I’ve left things like a bent fork, a bottle opener, a bumblebee eraser, a toy compass, a wooden ball, a single rainbow earring, a toy ducky, a weighted ball, a seashell, a barrel knob from a lighting fixture, a plastic horse, and a painted rock. I’ve heard of some people who leave useful swag, like a mini first aid kit or a small compass, and a bigger prize (even gift certificates or money!) is sometimes offered for the first finder. Here’s the current contents of my “swag bag”:

The above contents of my swag bag is all stuff that I picked up when I was first beginning, leaving stuff I picked up from around the house and taking whatever appealed to me. Since then, however, my swag bag has been slowly filled with what I like to think of as my signature swag.

First off, there’s my bracelets.

The original idea was poached from my friend and geocaching partner-in-crime, Christine, but they’ve since taken on a life of their own. Every spare moment I have, whether I’m watching tv or in the car while Kyle drives us to work, my fingers are flying through brightly colored embroidery floss. I started out only making them in Geocaching colors, but have since moved on to whatever makes me smile. I love leaving these bracelets in caches because they’re brightly colored and fun, and they can be rolled up small to fit into all but the smallest cache. I have this fantasy in my head where I’m out somewhere and I see someone wearing a bracelet that I recognize as one I made. And I’ll be all, “Hey, I recognize that, are you a geocacher?” and they’ll be all, “Holy crap, yes, are you MonsteRawr?” and then we’ll be best friends. This will probably never happen, but I’m having fun making bracelets anyway.

And then there’s my guitar picks.

It started with ones I picked up at work, like the one on top. I liked the idea because it’s unique, it perfectly reflects me and my life, and they fit in all but the teensiest caches. But I could never pick them up fast enough. I refuse to ask for them, as that hardcore violates Stagehand Code, and artists who don’t consciously hang on to them tend to chuck them at the audience. So as fast as I collected them, I was dropping them in caches.

Since I first started talking about geocaching my parents have also gotten into it, albeit not as rabidly as I have.  I was talking about caching with my dad on the phone one day, and I mentioned the guitar pick conundrum. A week or so later, I was surprised when an envelope appeared at my door containing MonsteRawr guitar picks. I was thrilled. For one, it was super sweet of my parents to have these made for me. My own custom guitar picks! But also, I mean, how cool are those?! They’re look great, and anyone who comes behind me will open the cache and know that I was there. It’s like my own personal badass calling card.

And for all but the teeny-weeniest of caches, I sometimes leave a swatch of color.

I don’t know why I feel compelled to leave something in the tinier caches. No one else does. Most people don’t leave swag in micro (about the size of a film canister) caches at all, and it’s not expected. As far as I know, I’m the only one who bothers. I think it’s because I love that moment when I open a cache, high on the thrill of the find, and I glimpse an unexpected surprise inside. I want to give other cachers that same surprise.

These swatches are of gel for theatrical lighting. They usually come in a little book containing hundreds of these little rectangles of gel, and they’re used by lighting designers to choose colors. I like them because they’re a splash of bright color and have fun names, and they’ll fit into any cache as long as it’s no smaller than the width of a swatch. I try to pick a name or color that somehow represents or reminds me of the cache. Sometimes it’s something that reflects the surroundings, like R12 Straw for a cache next to a field or R89 Moss Green for a cache in the base of a moss-covered tree. Sometimes it’s more reflective of my mood or the day, like R318 Mayan Sun for a 105 degree caching day in St Louis. My favorite so far has been R39 Skelton Exotic Sangria, which I left in a cache next to the Thoroughbred race track because the name reminds me of a horse name.

I like to think that my little tokens sit in those caches, waiting to one day bring a smile to the next finder’s face. I like to think that people enjoy finding after me, because they’re eager to see what splash of fun is waiting for them. Once I heard from another cacher who found one of my Monster guitar picks and loved it, but for the most part my swag travels on silently.

Really, though, I think that’s part of the spirit of caching. At this one point on the Earth, we each come to make our mark. That one point is forever different because we were there. Maybe it’s in a good way, because we left something that will bring a moment of joy to another finder. Maybe it’s in a bad way, because we unknowingly broke or ruined the cache for others. And maybe it’s in a way so small that it’s hardly noticeable except that there is one less empty space on the finder’s log. We can never know how our presence changed that spot and those who find it, only that we leave it different than it ever was before.

I want to leave it a little more colorful.

It’s that time.

That time of the summer where much of the newness of the season has worn off, the mere presence of warm weather no longer enough to make one giddy. Lemonade doesn’t taste quite as sweet as it did two months ago, the call of the ice cream man not as melodic, and the fun of grilling is eclipsed by how much of a pain in the balls it is to haul the fucking thing out and clean it. Especially in some of the areas where suffocating heat has been far too present and rain far too rare, (I’m looking at you St Louis, you 100+ degree asshole,) summer is starting to wear out its welcome. And while I’m still thoroughly enjoying the season, what with plenty of geocaching left to be done (yay wandering around in the woods!) and the track finally open (yay gambling and beer!) I’m almost starting to yearn for other seasons, ones that aren’t accompanied by a river of sweat running down the crack of my ass.

Here are 10 things I miss about winter:

Skiing. Skiingskiingskiingskiingskiing.

What can I say? I miss skiing. I miss everything about it.

Not having to worry that wearing the wrong shirt outside will give me ridiculous tan lines.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not a girl who actively tans. For one, I only developed the ability to do something besides burn and peel last year, so it’s not something I’m used to thinking about. And while I will admit that having a little color does makes my bruises and cellulite less noticeable, I just don’t care a ton about the shade of my skin. But I am a girl who loves being outside, and between running, hiking, geocaching, biking, and going to the track, I spend a lot of time in the sunshine. One day near the end of June I looked down and suddenly realized that after a month of running around outdoors in tshirts I had the most ridiculous farmer’s tan I’d ever seen. Not sexy.

Snuggling in bed with heaps of thick blankets.

Oh, yeah. After a day of skiing, when I’m cold to my very bones, nothing feels better than diving under our thick winter duvet while Kyle stacks quilt after quilt on top. Feeling the warmth and the weight of the blankets on top of me…oh, there’s nothing better. Bring me a cup of hot milk and honey and I’m in fuzzy heaven!

Not having to worry that when I stand up after sitting on a plastic or fake-leather chair there will be sweaty splotches left from my sweaty legs.

You know what I’m talking about. You’re at the salon and that cape has been draped over you for an hour-and-a-half and turned into a personal sauna. You’re sitting there and you can feel your thighs squish in their own sweat every time you shift in the chair. The stylist finally removes your cape and while you’re grateful for the cool air, you’re dreading what you’ll see when you stand up. You try to scoot your ass over the seat in the hopes that your shorts will wipe them up as you stand up…but there they are. Those twin oval sweat pools left by your legs. And even though you know that you can’t be the only woman to sweat in the chair (right?) and it has to be normal (right?) you still feel like the grossest being that ever crawled out of a swamp.

Letting my legs go unshaven for two weeks because work has been crazy and I’m too tired to bother with shaving them and no one but Kyle can see them so who gives a shit?

Granted, I realize that I’m pretty lucky when it comes to the leg hair department. My leg hair is blonde and fairly fine, so I have a little more leeway when it comes to shaving. But we all know that prickly don’t fly in the summer months of shorts and dresses, which makes bi-weekly shaving a must. Which is annoying when I’m in the middle of a week of 12-hour days and exhausted and frankly, I don’t give a shit about the smoothness of my legs. Until I meet friends for drinks and suddenly realize that my legs are so hairy that a family of elves have been living in my leg-forest for a week. Shit.

How much better hot coffee tastes.

It’s not even just the taste. It’s getting to wrap my hands around the warm cup and feel the hot liquid slide down my throat and into my belly. Sure, I still drink coffee in the summer for it’s super caffeine powers, but it doesn’t warm my soul like it does in the winter.

Not hearing Kyle whine because it’s hot and/or humid outside.

Six months ago, when I was wrapped up in a nest of blankets and losing feeling in my fingers and begging Kyle to let me turn the heat up higher than 65 degrees, he used to love to launch into his speech about how heat is expensive and we’re trying to save money so we can do the things we love, so just put on (another) sweater. But now that it’s warm out, suddenly money is of no issue. If it’s above 70 degrees, the house is closed and the a/c is blasting. And god forbid there’s even the tiniest bit of moisture in the air; even if it’s actually cooler outside, if there’s any humidity he wants the a/c on full blast. I’ve been told that this inability to tolerate being hot is not uncommon among the menfolk, but that makes it no less annoying.

The excitement that builds in my chest when snow starts to fall.

Even though a fresh snowfall no longer holds the promise of a snow day (most of the time,) I still can’t help but get excited about a good snow. It’s the prospect of all that new powder on the mountain, but it’s also the magic of new snow. It’s so fragile and beautiful and holds so much promise.

Not having to make sure my toenails are painted because unpainted they’re disgusting.

Look, I’m never going to have pretty feet. They’re calloused and blistered and scarred and my left big toenail is still black and blue from smashing it two months ago. I realize this, and have made peace with it. And I get that no one else wants to look at my nasty-ass feet, but I refuse to spend all summer wearing close-toed shoes just because my toes are gross. So I compromise. I paint my toenails dark colors, keep the worst of the blisters covered with band-aids, and hope that my stunning personality keeps the focus away from my hooves. And this (mostly) works. Except that this means that I am required (by law, probably) to keep my toenails painted, a task which I do not enjoy. It takes fooooooreeeever, and I can’t do anything while I’m waiting for them to dry. And inevitably I try to get up and do stuff before they’re fully dry, and inevitably I smudge them, which means now I have to fix them which means I have to wait even longer for them to dry. All because people find my feet gross to look at. Well, all I have to say is that you assholes better appreciate it.

Corduroys and sweaters.

What can I say, I love feeling fuzzy. And nothing feels fuzzier than corduroys and sweaters. They’re like sweatpants and a hoodie, except no one judges you for wearing them in public. Besides, I’ve never had a day when I woke up feeling too fat for corduroys and a sweater. They are perfect.