wild*life

Back in early July, we discovered something fascinating about Jacob. His mind’s eye is in black and white. Not grayscale. 3D. Black and white. So are his dreams. If he concentrates really hard he can add colors to the pictures, but it takes effort and the colors evaporate if he loses concentration.

I can’t find any good sciency internet information on this topic. Pretty sure Reddit isn’t peer-reviewed. I’ve been meaning to text my neuroscientist cousin, but instead I randomly ask people what they see in their mind’s eye. Turns out I get a variety of answers that aren’t 3D in color.

Interestingly enough, Jacob attributes this quirk to why he’s got a knack for color and likes art and design. He thinks he has to analyze it more because it doesn’t stick in his brain. And it’s true. He’s not color blind. He was always the child noticing inconsistent spacing between letters and words in children’s books. He sees the undertones when I ask for his advice choosing paint. He recognizes the nuances between eight shades of off white grout.

A couple of days ago I manifested some free persimmons on the side of the road. I pull up and Nate dutifully jumps out to get them. I tell him, “Get me the ones that are a deep, rich orange.”

“What’s a deep, rich orange?” he asks as he holds up an anemic choice.

“Nate. This is why I don’t ask for your help choosing grout.”

“What’s grout?”

On Friday we ventured out to Best Buy for the infamous retail holiday. I’m fairly certain I’ve spent my entire life avoiding Best Buy, and especially avoiding it at its peak of lights, sounds, and crowds. I usually find the entire place cold, blinding, and lacking in complementary ear plugs. But, I find myself in the market for a TV and various appliances. Plus, I’m the primary parent of two teenage boys that have graduated from Tom’s Toys, to Gamestop, to Best Buy.

I learned this weekend that browsing is not in their repertoire. Nate went in, found the first sales guy available, got the monitor he’d researched online, and then I had to lug it around the store so I could look at appliances for longer than 3 minutes.

The following day, I was surprised when they agreed to go Christmas shopping downtown, as Grandma and Granddad had thoughtfully funded a Mom present. They wanted to go into one store, buy me a gift, and bolt. Of course if I’m getting one present, I want to look around. Weigh my options. Browse. Sample. Savor.

They want to go into Williams-Sonoma, buy $60 worth of peppermint bark, throw something in for me, and speed walk back to the car.

The previous day, as we were driving into the Best Buy parking lot, Jake pipes-up, “I have my Dad memory of the day…”

“He told me you have to be at least 70-years old to be able to see See’s Candy.”

“Hah! I never heard that one before. That’s pretty funny.”

At dinnertime, it’s clear Nate doesn’t get the joke.

He can totally see it.

Earlier this week I was browsing through my blog, looking for inspiration for an eighth grade yearbook ad. Maybe I’ll find a brief little story that hits that sweet spot of short, funny, and not cringe, Mom. Hmmm, what’s this one called 2025?…

Clearly I’m clairvoyant. Thirteen years later and Hungry Nate is rifling through the pantry as I write this. Though instead of frozen pizzas, it’s quesadillas with sour cream and Tajine. Maybe because I never buy frozen pizzas.

“Hey Nate, if I bought frozen pizzas, do you think you’d make them and eat them?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“You do?”
“Easily, yeah.”

So I went to bed early last night and just as I was dozing off, I heard a shrill beeping sound. I sat up with a start. Then decided it was just the boys downstairs and went back to sleep. This morning I discovered Nate had made himself two pieces of chocolate toast after dinner.

This morning I offer to make him breakfast.
“One or two pieces of toast? One egg or two?”
“Two pieces of toast. Four pieces of eggs.”
“What? You want four eggs?”
“Yeah.”

2025… right on cue.

Business. Jacob’s always been interested in the start-up world and entrepreneurship. In elementary school he made his own “Food Fighters;” selling self-designed cards fashioned after Pokemon and miniature food with faces he made out of clay. “I made so much money off those little kids, Mom” says the former little kid who’s never seen himself that way. A few years later, he took on several artistic commissions designing personalized Vans. And prior to the pandemic, he sold cotton candy at his dad’s shop under his brand, The Floss Boss.

Meanwhile Nate did what Nate does. Watched, listened, learned. Always the trusty sidekick willing to make change or go get more supplies. He got a taste of sales last year during our annual soccer fundraising activity. He just so happened to make his first big sale to an incredibly generous officer of a publicly traded company. A couple of weeks ago, I found him using a baby wipe to clean his sixth grade graduation Air Jordans for resale at school. He came home with 50 bucks.

So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when Nate told me he wanted to sell snacks at school. Now I’m writing this and praying no loyal middle school counseling blog readers rat him out. Particularly after appreciating the phenomenal learning experience it’s been. They should build this into the curriculum. Plus we’re having so much fun. After only a couple of days we’ve covered over a dozen business concepts… such as:

Market opportunity: He tells me he wants to sell snacks. He decides on soda and chips. Some of his buddies have told him where they get the best prices. I call these friends the Snack Pack. But how’s he going to buy the inventory he needs?

Capital: We talk about businesses needing start-up funding. That it’s called capital. He decides to work for me doing all the clean-up in the main house– packing-up tile, hoisting pallets into the dumpster, dragging dead branches to the pile. Watering my plants and then telling me he needs to use the hose to wash spiderwebs off the barn– one of his favorite self-identified “chores.” Three hours at minimum wage gets him his seed funding.

Inventory: He does some internet research on where to get the lowest prices. He’s quite disappointed when I break the news that we don’t have a Walmart. I recommend a discount store I know. We discuss the merits of inventory that doesn’t melt. He points out the potential drawbacks of candy as Halloween approaches.

Profit Margins and Pricing: Pricing his products and calculating margins takes place in the aisles of the discount store. He recognizes the paramount importance of profits. He’s good at math. He’s decisive.

Gatekeeping: We find great prices at said store. We discuss guarding your trade secrets so the competition can’t undercut you. He already knows about gatekeeping as it relates to protecting your signature fragrance. You don’t want all the dudes at school smelling like you.

Creditors: He finds his capital is tied-up in a Venmo account and turns back to his creditor for cash. He’s got electronic money transfers down. We keep the receipt for bookkeeping. He strikes me as someone who wants to outsource his financial statements.

Differentiation: When we get home he loads-up the fridge with three kinds of soda. He freezes the lunch bags. He tests how much inventory fits in each. He plans to lead with ice cold sodas and what I call the Pacheco pack– the box of chips full of all spicy flavors: Flamin’ hot Cheetos, hot fries, some other things I’d never eat.

Advertising: His brother provides some unsolicited advice, “Did you advertise?” Of course. The SnapChat is in motion.

Product Market Fit: During his first day of sales he finds out not everyone’s heard of Cactus Cooler. It’s a lesser known brand. His other sodas sell out first.

Dead Stock: Over a few days, the Doritos reveal themselves as dead stock. We discuss discounting or rewarding your most loyal customers. We also talk about the dangers of eating your own inventory, the benefits of selling to your brother, and the upside of selling out.

Credit: The first day he makes four of his sales on credit. To his credit, he writes them all down on a tiny piece of paper.

Collections: We discuss the challenge of collections. On Day 2 he’s whittled it down to two debtors. Nate is known for his generosity. I think he’s learned his lesson?

Competitive Intelligence: On the drive home after practice, one of his buddies has a lot to say on the relative merits of ice cold sodas. It’s clear Nate’s hit a competitive nerve. Apparently the number of competitors is dwindling. Jeffrey got caught.

Market Research: Nate develops clarity on how he plans to change his inventory. We talk about market research and understanding what your customers like. He’s gotten strong feedback on the ice cold temperature of his sodas.

Logistics: Kid is a pack mule. His backpack is already huge given his books and his full shoe wardrobe for both cross country and soccer. Adding his old backpack back into the rotation is precariously suspicious. He downsizes his inventory to lower his profile and hopefully avoid…

Regulations: After school, on his second day of sales, I sit in the golf course parking lot for fifteen minutes. No Nate. I wonder how long detention lasts? Fortunately he’s just confused the day and gone all the way to cross country before realizing there’s no practice. I ask him if he likes this business and he says yes. “At some point I’m probably going to get caught, right Mom? I mean probably.”

I appreciate his practical assessment. Let’s just hope it’s after he’s offloaded the Cactus Coolers and Doritos.

After every trip, I’m possessed by the greatest of ambitions to capture the stories before they evaporate into the routine of our daily lives. And then the unpacking and Laundry Mountain and the groceries and the Zoom Life overtake me. When I collapse into my favorite corner of the couch after dinner, I just can’t resist the new season of Emily in Paris.

But in all things, sometimes a little is just enough. And when I reflect on our time in Amsterdam this summer, it’s a bunch of little moments. Little stories.

There’s our first walk to the local Voorburg Hoogvliet grocery store for provisions and to see what interesting foods we’ll find. And the lady conversationally rattling off a string of Dutch to Jacob. The only clue she’s talking to us is the repeated use of what sounds like “boys.” We look around us. Behind us. I mistakenly think our meer presence emanates American, but apparently not when you’re in a local village. We enjoy a mutual laugh as she switches into English and explains she has a bad back and needs help lifting a big bottle from a lower shelf.

There’s the walk back to Majelleke’s house where we pass a group of school children playing on the playground. Amidst another flurry of Dutch, I distinctly hear “skibidi” and laugh out loud. Prompting Nate to declare “brain rot.” He should know.

There’s our first train ride to the city where we never see a ticketing machine or counter. The trams have on-train ticket machines. Apparently, the trains do not. I talk my way out of a fine while the conductor teaches me to use the train app. The next day, we lug our suitcases back to the station, hot and sweaty, only to find no sign of the same train from the day before. Jacob luh-uh-uhves to say, “Mom, remember that time when you stood at the train station and just stared at the schedules screen with your mouth open. For so long. With your mouth open.”

Then there’s our arrival at our hotel room in Amsterdam and the unexpected surprise of big beautiful doors opening onto a terrace overlooking the canals. It’s our spot for all manner of outdoor picnics. Nate’s research uncovers a takeaway pizza place within walking distance. He still remembers it’s called nNea. We eat life-changing croissants filled with vanilla custard from Salvo. One evening, I relax in my bare feet with a fancy cocktail and the sunset.

There’s the history talk at the Ann Frank Museum prior to our tour. The young docent explains how the people of Germany were suffering. Standing in food lines for hours. Little kids playing with piles of worthless money. And how a politician rose to power with a simple narrative, “You are suffering. I know you’re suffering, but it’s not your fault. These other people are to blame. Minorities, the disabled, the gay community, and the Jews. Just get rid of them and all our problems will be solved.” Later on, we talk about this timeworn story and how politicians use it to divide people, foment distrust, and increase their own power. Where are we hearing this story now? The story Hitler and countless others have used to demonize people that are different? We talk about not only being alert and skeptical of this story, but also why it is imperative to speak out against it.

Then there’s the afternoon I sip a cappuccino on a bench along my favorite canal, Bloemgracht. The entire street taking pride in its name. Planters and sidewalks spilling over with flowers. My favorite are the hollyhocks planted in the cracks of the pavement. I find a dutch cheese slicer at the antique store across from my bench. And as the boats pass, the helmsmen wave at me and smile.

There’s our trip to the botanical garden, where we fall in love with the butterfly house, visiting it twice. The boys show me how to get carnivorous plants to close. We stop for drinks and snacks.

There’s the afternoon, after hours of walking, when we collapse into the first open chairs we see at a sidewalk cafe. Jacob’s rapidly deteriorating into hanger until presented with the most fantastic spread of Spanish pinxtos outside of Spain.

There’s our second to last night, when we take an Uber to a little village on the outskirts of the city for an Indonesian rice table experience. Best satay ever. Fifteen different little dishes to try. An idyllic outdoor location along a river. The boys love when a server cautions us on what’s “spicy” and they deem it almost imperceptible. We all order our own desserts.

And there are the teachable moments about the differences between coffee shops and cafes. Stumbling upon women in their sixties sitting in the windows of the red light district, chain smoking in their lingerie. Nate and I visiting the dutch version of a Sephora, twice, for cologne testing. And our serendipitous overlap with the gay pride parade on the canals, and the colorful, festive party that envelops the entire city.

Little moments. Little conversations. Little stories. That all add up to big memories.

Three short weeks ago, we arrived home from our latest adventure to the Netherlands. I soaked up the architecture, canals, imperfection, and flowers. The boys soaked up fragrances, football, history, and pastries.

One of the best parts of our trip was visiting Majella in Voorburg and hearing the story about how she became one of our dearest family friends. Now to hear my dad tell it, he met her on the beach in Holland while he was backpacking in college.

To hear Majella tell it… is so much better.

It’s 1969 and Majella is on her honeymoon with her new husband, Barry. They’ve gone to the shore, not far from where she lives now. I think it’s called Scheveningen. Majella and Barry are sitting on the sand with her brother, chatting, when she notices a foreigner just down the beach.

She tells me he’s very good looking and she thinks he’s American. They need a reason to talk to him. Her brother needs a light for his cigarette and decides this will be a good way to engage this lone foreigner. Majella is convinced this guy is not a smoker, but her brother goes over and strikes up a conversation.

Before you know it, she’s invited George home for dinner and over fifty five years later, my boys are sitting at her dinner table. Jacob and Nate appreciatively wolf down chicken, potatoes and garlic aioli (they’re still talking about), and currant parfaits for dessert. Over dinner we learn about all of the friends Majella has made from all over the world. She brings out letters I wrote her from Spain and the “Dammit Doll” my grandmother made. Majella is outgoing and joyful and full of laughter. Her hospitality unmatched. And what I love most is her curiosity. She notices foreigners. She sees people who are different. Newcomers. Strangers. And what she sees, is a future friend.

An entire world full of friends.

Thursday night we went to see Cake in Paso. It was the boys’ first concert, and while they didn’t know any of the songs, even though I’ve been playing them for months, they enjoyed their meatball subs with their buddies on a picnic blanket by the light of the moon. We got home really late. After a full workday on Friday immersed in Powerpoint and Excel, I was done.

Friday evening, I drop the boys downtown for some more music and a sleepover and head home for a glass of wine, Netflix, and an early bedtime.

About an hour later, I’m startled awake by the incessant sound of a helicopter and spotlights in my bedroom. Somehow lights are shining into the second story french doors. I jump out of my bed, terrified and disoriented and look out the doors. There are two people walking around the back of my house with flashlights. I watch as they look at the chicken coop and then make their way toward the new house.

As I watch them take the back path, I see multiple flashlights inside the upstairs of the new house. There are two cars at the entrance of my driveway, shining their headlights toward the barn so I can’t see what kind of cars they are. I realize the front door of the main house is still unlocked because I’d left it open for the hardwood floor contractor.

Once they’re at a safe distance, I go out on the second story deck. Because of the helicopter, I’m thinking there’s a wildfire and I need to evacuate immediately. The coastal fog is thick and visibility is low. I have a vague plan that I’m going to confront these trespassers and run back inside, lock the door, and call the police. I’m also going to hide in the upstairs bathroom and use my legs to brace the door shut. I know this is fool proof against an intruder after years of practicing it against my brother. Yes, I was totally disoriented and panicked and not thinking straight. From the deck outside, I see two people standing in front of the main house and I yell something to the effect of “Who are you and what are you doing?”

They call me ma’am and say they’re sheriffs. 

“Is there a fire? Do I need to leave? My kids aren’t here.” No. They want to come talk to me.

In my pajamas and my most assertive voice I tell them, “I cannot tell that you are sheriffs.” I’m blinded by their headlights and flashlights and as my friend later points out, they could’ve ordered those uniforms off Amazon.

One of the officers comes back across the yard, shines his flashlight on his uniform, and insists on coming up to the second story deck to talk to me.  He’s respectful and friendly, but I’m panicky, disoriented, and wondering why they’re searching my home without my consent.

The sheriff explains they’re looking for a man experiencing a mental health crisis. I breathe a sigh of relief.  Which in hindsight makes me realize I’m clearly more worried about wildfires than prowlers or manhunts. The officer tells me he’s 6 feet tall and heavyset and they think he’s taken a trail up the hill to my house. Uh, unless he’s being chased by vicious dogs, no one is climbing up this particular hill to my house.

Multiple officers come out of the new house after their self-guided tour. I lock all the front doors and get back in my bed, hopped up on fight and flight. I’m not really sure how to end this story, but keep coming back to these Cake lyrics…

It’s 3 o’clock in the morning
Or maybe it’s 4
I’m thinking of you
Wondering what I should do
But I’m finally cutting
Through this haze