A Grand time.

Last week, my husband and I spent four days with three teenagers in one car driving to the Grand Canyon.
It was all my husband’s idea. “We’re going to the Grand Canyon!” he declared a few months ago. Seeing as the oldest Huffman daughter is college age and beginning that whole parent/child separation thing we simultaneously dread and can’t wait for, he figured it was now or never to herd all five of us into a family road trip.
Traveling with three teens is easier and harder than when they were little kids. For one, I don’t have to pack assortments of juice boxes, Polly Pockets and Littlest Pets to entertain them. On the other hand, there was still plenty of “Don't touch me,” and “Stop it” plus a whole bunch of fighting over iPhone charging cords.  
Arriving in Las Vegas via frequent-flyer miles, we hit the road to Hoover Dam. That’s when we noticed the temperature on our car’s dashboard — 114 degrees. From inside our air-conditioned car, this was merely a curiosity, as in, “Gosh, it’s 114 degrees out there.”
The full power of such Hades-like heat wasn’t fully realized until we arrived at the dam. It was hot. Mind-numbingly, stupefyingly hot.
Thankfully, the visitor’s center was air-conditioned. Dad and middle daughter were handling the heat better than swooning mom, so I parked myself next to an air vent. An hour later, I managed to stumble back to our car without being rendered unconscious from our visit to Hoover Oven, I mean, Dam.
We took a detour down Route 66, stopping in Seligman, Ariz. I think the town was the inspiration for the movie “Cars,” because the girls started making all kinds of references to Radiator Springs and Lightning McQueen. A carful of happy teens makes for happy parents, so we gladly let them explore the trinket shops that completely enthralled them. If the price for family harmony includes two leather bracelets, three postcards and one “Route 66” refrigerator magnet made in China, I say “Where do I pay?”
They say the Grand Canyon is big. That’s not true. It’s not big. It’s ginormous. It feels like you’ve stepped inside a huge painting at a natural history museum. I almost expected a mountain goat to amble by. Or a small plane to fly by at eye level.
Even these “Where’s the Wi-Fi” teens were impressed. But when I insisted on taking group photos, one Huffman teen loudly accused me of: 1. Taking too many pictures. 2. Caring too much about taking pictures. 3. Bugging certain people too much about posing for pictures. Let’s just say it was a good thing that at that point we were standing at a part of the Grand Canyon that had railings.
Gritting my teeth, I eventually “persuaded” all three to pose for a group shot, which I was already mentally placing into a Christmas card. And then it was time to leave. I took one last look on my way back to the car. Who knows when we’ll be at the Grand Canyon together again?
At least I have the pictures.

Lights out

What is it with our kids and lights? Our girls never met a lamp or other light they couldn’t turn on … and leave on, long after they’ve left that particular room, or even the house. Thomas Edison would feel right at home at my house: plenty of lightbulbs in every room, and most of them burning brightly.
When they were little, it was easy enough to flip switches off and keep them off. The kids were too small to reach them in the first place. But now that they’re taller, I find myself trailing after them, like their own personal light turner-offer.
It seems so obvious to me: leave a room, turn the lights off. But these kids seem oblivious to the concept. It’s like they think PG&E stands for Probably Gonna Exit (and leave all the lights on).
A child of the 1970s, I know where my “lights off” campaign comes from. My mom was always chasing after us during that era’s energy crisis.
“You’re wasting electricity,” she’d call out, slapping down switches every chance she got.
Lately, lights have become a bigger issue at home after I got what seemed like a great invitation from PG&E. Apparently, if I’d sign up for their SmartRate program, on most days during summer our electric rates will be lower. Of course there’s a catch. On up to 14 days, from 2 to 7 p.m., our electric rates will be higher.
My eyes skipped right over the “higher” bit and went right to the “lower” part. Sign me up.
Now I just had to inform the other Huffman residents of our new arrangement. I broke it to them over dinner one night.
We’re going to save money on our PG&E bill this summer, I said brightly, like they even knew what a PG&E bill was. It’ll be easy, I told them. No problem. On a few afternoons, we’ll just take a little vacation from the TV and computers, I said. As a test run, a few days later, I told the girls that we were having a SmartRate afternoon. No TV, computer or lights after school, I warned them.
Six suspicious eyeballs looked back at me. Don’t worry, I told them. After 7 p.m. you can turn it all back on. I wasn’t sure how much buy-in I’d get, so just to be sure I took all the TV remotes, computer keyboards and mice with me to work that day.
That afternoon I reminded them about our plan.
But I’m at 17 percent, complained one daughter, holding out her iPhone and showing me her declining battery status.
Try not to do much texting for the next few hours, I told her.
She looked at me woefully.
You can do it, I told her.
Sure enough, the world did not end during our “brownout.” At 7 p.m., I unpacked the keyboards and remotes and passed them out to eager hands. Summer has only begun, but I’m sure they’ve seen the light.

Running on empty

I’m not a real runner. Which does not explain how I recently found myself attempting to run 3.1 miles — in a row — on a hot Sunday afternoon at Napa Valley College.
However, I do have a treadmill in our garage. And when my long-standing love affair with chocolate was threatening to send several pairs of my pants to Goodwill, onto the treadmill I went. I got an app on my phone that monitors my walking with a green bubble that counts each step. Once, after some fast walking, a little purple bubble popped up to report that I’d “run” 420 steps. Hmmm. If that was “running,” how far could I run for real?
Three months later, I had an industrial-size fan and TV to keep me company on the treadmill. I was counting those purple bubbles and working my way toward three-mile runs.
Meanwhile my column companion, “Gal on the Go” Michelle Sander, was literally running circles around me. She ran in Washington, D.C., she ran at Disneyland and she ran at a combination rave/race. Michelle made running look like fun, especially when she brought home race schwag such as Tinkerbell medals and Tiffany necklaces.
That was it. I figured if I could run three miles on my treadmill, surely I could run 3.1 miles at the Napa Valley College 5K Race For Education. How hard could it be?
Real runners: Go ahead and have a good laugh now.
Lucky for me, I had no idea what I was getting into. But that Sunday, arriving at the start of the race, I began having buyer’s remorse. What am I doing here? What made me think I could do this? Who are all these spandex-wearing people? And where was the nearest porta-potty?
And then we were off. Squeezing in between runners, walkers and baby-joggers, I realized immediately I was out of my element. My normal bouncy treadmill stride was nowhere to be found. My legs felt like jelly or lead or both. I knew my feet were moving, but was I actually running?
I’d barely hit the first turn and already I was sure I’d made a big mistake. I had planned to use my normal peppy running soundtrack on my headphones to help me keep pace, but at that point, I was in no mood for Prince’s “Baby I’m a Star.”
The clapping people, high school bands and cheerleaders on the sidelines were of no help either. I could barely acknowledge them. Do not distract me, people, I am on a mission here, and if I look up I may veer off course and into a ditch.
And then we hit the first hill. OK, it was more of a slight incline, but in my panic, I couldn’t imagine running up it, let alone past it. I slowed to a fast walk. I’ll walk only to the water station, I told myself. After a few sips, I willed my wobbly legs to start running again.
Oh Lord, I’m going to collapse for sure, I thought. I hope there’s a nice paramedic nearby to help peel me off the pavement. They’ll have to inform my husband that I will not be crossing the finish line. I hope someone has a stretcher and a cool bottle of water.
As I hobbled along at my snail’s pace, it seemed like every other runner was passing me by. I was running so slow, even a race-walker passed me. I’m going to be last, I just know it, I thought. Would I even finish this grueling slog? Had I reached the halfway point yet? I longed for my treadmill and my nice dark garage and fan and TV.
The route twisted through the campus. The switchbacks up and down different sections of the parking lot were like torture. After what seemed like hours, I noticed that I was actually heading back toward where we had started this death march of a run.
Finally, I could see the finish line. Don’t stop now, I told myself. Somehow, my rubbery legs kept running as I turned that final corner. I was going to make it. I was actually going to finish. Crossing the line, the announcer called out my name, which made me smile in spite of myself.
There was my husband with my water bottle. Go get your medal, he said, pointing to people holding out ribbons to all the finishers. I took it and immediately put it around my neck. It wasn’t Tiffany silver but it was mine.

Mystery animal

Our oldest daughter’s room is pretty much off limits to us these days. I know how to choose my battles, and I surrendered a long time ago in the Clean Your Room war.
So it was a rare occurrence when I entered her inner sanctum a few weeks ago to prepare for the carpet cleaners. A desk floor mat had to be retrieved and the clothes picked up off the floor. But besides the general disaster scene, nothing looked out of the ordinary.
A day later the carpets were dry and I carried the mat back into her room. Dropping it back onto the floor, I glanced over at the corner. And that’s when I saw them.
Not one, but two ferrets in a cage tucked into her closet.
The little creatures were clinging to the frame of the three-story cage, scaling the sides like some kind of ferret jungle gym. There was a ferret hammock and a ferret blankie. There was even a ferret litter box.
The ferrets blinked their ferret eyes like they were just as surprised to see me as I was them.
A mom of three teenagers should expect surprises, but the sight of the two mini mammals tucked away in the corner of our daughter’s bedroom had me completely stupefied.
What the “h-e-double hockey sticks” is going on here? She was already harboring two turtles and a guinea pig, and now we have two ferrets?
The number of animals living in her bedroom was now equal to the number of humans in the entire house.
What was next? Lemurs? Potbellied pigs? Jackalopes?
You better come in here and see this, I yelled to my husband.
Are those ferrets? he asked, after he came into the room.
I think so, I said.
How long have they been there?
I have no idea, I said.
I texted our daughter.
We need to discuss the visitors in your room when you get home, I wrote.
A few hours later, mom, dad and daughter held a ferret summit at the kitchen table.
Exactly how long have the ferrets been living in her closet? What were her plans for taking care of them? And where did they come from, because I don’t recall seeing ferrets at our local PetCo.
I bought them in Carson City, she explained.
You made a ferret run to Nevada? Oh, this was just getting better and better by the hour.
I immediately started brainstorming on ideas of how quickly I could extract the ferrets from the house.
Perhaps someone would consider a ferret “trade”? Or couldn’t we just release the ferrets into the wild a la “Free Willy”? Actually, that wouldn’t work. Turns out ferrets are taboo in California.
A few days went by and another thing about the ferrets quickly became apparent.
Ferrets stink. They stink like a cross between a dirty, wet dog and a hormonal skunk. After ferret odor started wafting through the home, I didn’t care how cute the critters were. The ferrets had to move out.
By the next weekend, dad and daughter had constructed a deluxe outdoor ferret cage in the backyard under a nice shady tree. The ferret hammock was installed, and a special sleeping bunk hammered into place. A private nook allows for uninterrupted ferret napping. I’m sure it’s what every ferret dreams of.

On the record

Our girls have many complaints about my behavior, but lately, they’ve been harping on me for one particular “offense.”
Interviewing them.
Apparently, I need to stop doing that.
Hey, I happen to be a reporter. I interview people for a living. I ask questions all day long. And when I get home, I keep on asking.
Our children are the perfect story sources. Unlike my day job, where I meet someone for an hour or two, write a story and be done with it, I live with these subjects. I’m like the mom version of the journalist who’s embedded with an army unit behind front lines. And yes, that battle metaphor is particularly fitting at our home. 
Unfortunately, our teens aren’t exactly falling all over themselves to grant “access” to this reporter.
“Let me tell you all about my day,” said no Huffman teen ever. If any of my questions dare to tread beyond the generic “how was school today,” or “have you done your homework?” these kids go into full-on lockdown mode and start acting like a territorial PR representative. “Who wants to know? Why do you want to know? What’s this story about? Who else are you interviewing for this story?”
Apparently, it’s even worse when I’m around their friends. I swear I don’t realize I’m doing it. To me, I’m just being curious.
What’s new in 7th grade? I like to ask. Have you finished your science project yet? What color TOMS shoes is everyone wearing these days? Have you been to the new yogurt place in town? What are your favorite toppings? What books are you reading?
Stop interviewing, my girls tell me.
“You’re like a cop,” said one Huffman daughter. She also compared me to someone giving a lie detector test. You ask too many questions, she said.
Whoever said “curiosity killed the cat” didn’t have three teenagers. As a mother, it is my job to extract as much information I can from them. A mom needs to be a combination CIA agent and the talk-show host version of Katie Couric. We need intel, but we also need them to sit with us on the couch and have a friendly chat about makeup or One Direction. It also wouldn’t hurt to have a little round of applause at the end of said chat, either.
When they do deign to answer my questions, our teens can actually be helpful. They can show me new apps for my iPhone. They can tell me who got eliminated on “American Idol” the night before. They know who sings that “Thrift Shop” song and can explain what “popping tags” means.
I tried to interview my girls for this column about my pesky interviewing but I think they’re onto me.
My interview request was denied.

The wild one

I always thought of my Uncle Jimmy as the “wild one” in my mom’s family. The youngest brother of four siblings, he was the kind of guy who hung out at VFW bars, smoked too much, shot and cleaned his own dinner and once had a raccoon for a pet.
Seeing as he lived in St. Louis and I grew up in California, many of my Uncle Jimmy stories are secondhand. I never knew how many of them were true and which were just part of the Uncle Jimmy legend.
He joined the Navy and said he went to Vietnam. I heard he brought back a large quantity of marijuana, which he hid in Grandma’s basement, and a 4-foot-tall bomb shell casing, which he stashed in her attic. Supposedly, one time he and Grandpa had a fight and he punched Uncle Jimmy so hard he flew through the back door out onto the porch.
He had a reputation in the neighborhood, said my aunt. Once when she was riding her purple Schwinn with the banana seat, three kids tried to steal the bike from her. Wielding his name like her own personal talisman, she yelled at them: “Don’t you know who my big brother is?” It worked. They turned and ran, she said.
My grandpa refused to let my aunt wear jeans because “jeans are for hippies,” she was told. But Uncle Jimmy gave her her first pair of bell bottoms, which she can describe in detail to this day. Grandpa wouldn’t let her drive until she was 18, but Jimmy secretly taught her how to drive a stick shift when she was 16.
Uncle Jimmy took me to my first bar when I was about 13. I drank a soda and wondered if my mom knew we were hanging out in a south St. Louis dive. Don’t worry about your mom, he said. Earlier that day he had been mightily offended when she told him she did not feed her children processed cheese. There’s nothing wrong with processed cheese, he sputtered indignantly.
During another visit, my brother and I spent the night at his house. Uncle Jimmy built us a fort out of blankets and we all played Monopoly under the tent for what seemed like hours. We slept under the blanket tent that night.
When my grandpa was sick, we flew out to St. Louis to see him. He was in a hospital bed in the dining room of their brick house on Vermont Street. That afternoon, when it became obvious that Grandpa was about to pass away, Uncle Jimmy hustled me and my brother out of the house and into the back of his pickup. We went to get ice cream and he gently told us that Grandpa had died.
Then there was the time Uncle Jimmy met my husband for the first time. Arriving around dinner time, Jimmy shook his hand.
“Want to come with me to get a pack of cigarettes?” he said.
Sure, my husband said.
Eight hours later my husband returned.
“We went to one VFW bar, and then another one,” he said, slightly dazed from his Uncle Jimmy escapade. “He introduced me to everybody as his nephew.”
Grandma was pissed at him, but not for long.
The next day we went to Jimmy’s house and found him sitting at his kitchen table, hands covered in blood from cleaning the birds he’d caught hunting. He gave us a tour of the ruins of the old carriage house in his backyard. Take whatever you like, he said, gesturing at the dusty old dime-store candy dispensers and leftovers from my great aunt and uncle’s former gift shop.
Our girls knew Uncle Jimmy as the zany uncle who’d send them boxes of Dollar Store trinkets for Christmas. That and the fruitcake. He started a Christmas tradition of passing an old fruitcake from brother to sister and back again.
Years of drinking and smoking caught up with Uncle Jimmy. A few months ago, he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. Later I heard he had stomach cancer and pancreatic cancer too. It was serious but he was stable. He was in the VA hospital. I thought I’d go see him this summer, but I didn’t get the chance. He died on Holy Thursday. He was just 62.
I asked my aunt about the fruitcake. We agreed we should keep the tradition going, for sure.

Spining round

The three Huffman girls have always pined for the latest Apple gadget — iPods, iPhones, iTouches… If it starts with an “i,” “iWant” it, they’d say.
But last week one Huffman announced she was saving her money for something a little different.
I want a turntable, she said.
You mean a record player, I said.
Yeah, she said, as if she hadn’t been begging for an iPad just three days before.
Was this a trick? Was she trying to lull me into reliving the 1980s, a decade I couldn’t wait to escape at the time but now look back on with the kind of nostalgia that only 30 years and three teenagers can bring?
Did she really want a RECORD PLAYER — one with a needle and arm? The kind that you plug in with a cord, and turn on with the click of a dial, not the tap of a touchscreen?
Yeah, she said. They’re cool.
So a record player is cool now?
This is it, I said to myself. My generation is so old that we’re new again. We’re so old that companies are reinventing our old technology into “new” technology. They’re reproducing our era, only this time with Wi-Fi, USB ports and iPhone apps.
What’s next? Eight-track players? Gramophones with those cone-shaped speakers? Morse code jam sessions?
A friend has a record player, our daughter informed me. She has fun. on vinyl.
Fun? I knew enough to recognize the name of the newish band I’d heard on the radio. But what band in 2013 is releasing music on actual vinyl? It turns out more than you’d think. Our daughter rattled off a bunch of other current bands that had done the same.
She showed me a photo online (naturally) of a record player. It looked a lot like something you might have seen in my bedroom in about 1978, only it comes in her choice of a blue, green, orange, pink or turquoise case.
This got me reminiscing about my early record purchases. First there was the recorded book “Black Beauty,” complete with illustrated pages, then 45s by Bobby Sherman, and the “Grease” soundtrack, eventually followed by the Police’s “Synchronicity” album and “Whammy” by the B-52s.
I probably would have kept on buying vinyl, but then I upgraded to the latest and greatest technology: a Realistic brand cassette tape recorder bought at the local Radio Shack. It had not one, but two cassette tape players, which the Jennifer of 1983 referred to as “totally rad.”
My daughter told me that her friend has even been going to the thrift store and buying old records to play on her turntable.
Like what?, I said dubiously.
Led Zeppelin. The Eagles, she said.
Hmm … it was hard to argue with classic rock.
I considered the possible upsides to a record player. If she got the turntable, she could start visiting Goodwill looking for old vinyl records. Who knows, maybe she could even run across an old dual-track cassette player. I could teach our girl how to make a mixtape.