Letter from Harrisburg

I operate in two completely different worlds, living in one and visiting the other.

The first is my world as a wife and mom in the middle of summer’s grass fields and busyness. I never know what waits for me when I get up in the morning. It might be our enormous dog Hansie lying on his bed and chewing

on pink and blue birthday candles. With detective skills from 22 years of mothering, I deduce that this was the combined work of my two teenage boys and, of course, the dog, each of whom weigh about 150 pounds and have big feet, bigger appetites and a streak of mischief.

Ben, I recall, had accidentally dumped the bin of party supplies in the back pantry the day before and then assured me he picked them all up. Then Steven took the pop cans out the back door to the car, and didn’t latch the door behind him, an error that Hansie always catches, and which has previously resulted in the disappearance of a large container of homemade chocolate chip cookies and an 8-pound beef roast.

So, I gather, Ben didn’t pick up the bags of candles and little pastel candleholders, Steven left the door unlatched, and Hansie found something new and incongruous to chew on. A typical beginning to a typical day in my everyday universe.

This world is full of people this summer — my husband and me, six children and a seed-sacking teenage nephew named Zack. I feel like I live at the Portland airport: Flight 63 exiting by the back door with a jug of ice water, Flight 144 coming in hot and dusty at the front, Flight 26 strapping on his bike helmet and preparing for takeoff.

Harvest brings an increase in activity, dirt and appetites. Steven grills 20 hamburgers for lunch and they all disappear by 3 p.m. Ryegrass seeds spill out of pockets and lie scattered on the bathroom floor after showers, to sprout from under the baseboards next winter.

I don’t always feel appreciated here. My daughters giggle at my memory lapses and say, “Wow, Mom, you’re getting a lot of gray hair!” The boys seem to perceive me as an invisible motor that keeps things fed and cleaned but doesn’t require much attention. I try to say profound motherly things at the supper table and no one hears me.

Then suddenly, in the middle of laundry or dishes or weeding flower beds, I know it’s time.

I kick off the muddy garden shoes and head for the shower. Then I slip into shoes with heels that click and a coordinated outfit with no spaghetti-sauce stains on the front or flower-bed dirt on the knees. A quick fluff in my hair and a spritz of hairspray, hollered last-minute instructions to bake the lasagna for an hour and gather the eggs, and I roll my tote of books through the kitchen and am off to visit my other universe.

My Kia Optima is a golden chariot, transporting me to distant galaxies, transforming me from hassled mom to cool, Professional Author. I set the seat and the temperature exactly where I like them, turn off the K-Love station, pop in a CD of melodious acapella gospel songs by the Nathan Good Family, and head down Powerline Road and into the sunshine, singing along if the mood strikes me.

These venues vary from library fundraisers to Lions Club meetings to Bible studies at YaPoAh Terrace. Invariably, an eager woman is waiting at the door. “Oh, I’m so glad to meet you!” she says. “Can I help you with your bag? Here, let me take that.”

Other equally eager people greet me inside. They are glad to see me, they have read my writings, they bought my book to send to a daughter in Michigan. I am settled into the best chair in the house. Would I like coffee? Or perhaps a cup of tea? Cream or sugar? Would I like a special sort of pen for signing books?

I sip my drink and look around. Everyone in the room is polite and quiet and civilized, the outfits are clean and well-coordinated, there isn’t a speck of warehouse dust in sight. People chat about things that belong in this universe — a new tea shop downtown, the latest politics, the symphony on Tuesday night.

“I bought a pint of organic blueberries,” I hear a woman say, and I wonder what it would be like to get a pint of fruit instead of multiple gallons.

Soon it’s time for my talk, and for the first time in weeks I actually have the attention of everyone in the room. I get to say exactly what I want, and except for the inevitable white-haired gentleman who falls asleep, everyone listens with such full attention that I begin to think I might actually be saying something worthwhile. No one interrupts, no one hollers across the table, no one argues with my conclusions. And at the end they all applaud.

People begin to mill around as I sit down to sign books. One by one, they stop by to thank me or buy books or tell me that they had an Amish great-uncle-by-marriage in Ohio by the name of Smucker or Schmucker and oh what was it, John, or Jake? At least two women tell me I look far too young to have six children. I start conversations and finish them. Everyone is nice.

And then, like the final bite of pumpkin pie with whipped cream at Thanksgiving dinner, I am suddenly utterly satisfied and I know one more sugary bite would mean illness. Everything has been compliments, delight and affirmation. And it’s enough. Time to go.

I tuck my things in the backpack and roll it out to the Kia. Too tired mentally even for music, I drive home in silence, pondering, leaving that universe behind, rolling through a galaxy or two to return to the other.

The boys are shooting baskets when I drive in, and a stray shot bounces off the car with a clang. Hansie nudges my hand and drools happily on my lovely skirt as I get out of the car. I click through the kitchen, noting empty ice cube trays scattered on the island, newspapers on the table, enormous sandals tossed by the front door.

“Mom! You’re supposed to call Grandma!” a voice shouts from upstairs. “Mom, I’m hungry!” “Hey, has anyone seen today’s mail?” “Mom, did you mend my warehouse pants?” “Mom, can I buy a 22?” “Oh, Mom, I forgot to tell you — Coffeys need someone to feed the chickens tomorrow.”

A homemade arrow flies past me and hits my desk. I turn to see Jenny showing off her new bow made of a stick and string. The back door slams, the phone rings, and there’s a terrible crash upstairs.

I change into comfortable denim, steer one boy toward the empty ice cube trays and the other toward the pile of shoes by the door, send Jenny and her arrows outside, tell Amy to pack a lunch for Zack the nephew, call upstairs to ask Emily if she gathered the laundry, kiss the dusty husband coming in the door, and grab the phone to call Grandma.

The gentle sweetness of my other universe seems far away. I roll up my sleeves and smile. I’m ready for this again, back in my everyday world, back where life is wild and noisy and challenging, back where I’m needed, back with the ones I love, back where I love to be.