Seattle, Week 2

This afternoon we floated over the deep blue waters of the Puget Sound on the Poulsbo-Edmonds Ferry. The sun shone for perhaps the second day since we've been here. From the upper deck, we watched the water churning from the ferry's engines, stretching out in a foaming path; in the distance the Cascades rose distinct and snow-capped; to our right we could see Mount Rainer's bulk, and to our left, the skyline of Seattle, where we'll walk about this evening with my brother and his partner, taking in the lights and finding a Thai restaurant. Or Vietnamese--the jury is out on that.

This morning when I ventured downstairs to my sister's kitchen, my mother met me by the coffee pot. "Does this day feel SPECIAL to you?" she asked. I peered at her from my sleep-blurred eyes. She pressed: "Because when I woke up this morning, the day felt really special."

After a few lovely days of Christmas presents, wine, and conversation, this particular morning promised house-cleaning (my sister's in-laws follow on our heels). I supposed that cleaning toilets would be pretty special, but I still was befuddled when Mom said again,

"Doesn't this day just feel really special?" Had I forgotten my sister's birthday again? I thought wildly. No, it's in January. What was my madre getting at?

Finally she caved. "It's the nineteenth!" she announced.

Sure enough. Twelve years of marriage to Martin. Martin was waiting to see if I'd realize why the day was special too; I'd greeted him this morning by telling him not to wake me up with his questions--since he's just arrived, he's still on Pennsylvania time. I've adjusted to Washington time, so he awakens me far too early with his bright chatter.

But after twelve years of marriage, he was unsurprised that the date had slipped my mind. He is celebrating right now by stuffing himself with corn chips and watching football with my Dad, a past time he dreams about at our house, where we scorn television but dream about watching it at other houses.

If anyone needs to reach me, I'm at my parent's house. Oh, and Sally, will you water my plants? Pleease? I'll send you some rare Seattle sunshine.

Interested in wearing a bra on your head? Read my story in the O-R.

Attracting Females

Near the end of our chicken curry tonight at my sister's house in Washington, my seven year old nephew Josiah, who had been quiet during the meal, spoke up.

"Some males sing. Some fight. I'm going to dance."

We begged that he expand, so he said, "Well, male aminals like to attract females. I'm an aminal, and I'm a male, and I'm going to attract a female."

We asked Josiah to show us his dance but he said, "No. I'll feel foolish."

Bribing ensued, and finally promised four pieces of candy from the gingerbread house, Josiah scooted off his chair and laid himself, belly down on the floor, where he began to slither like a snake.

Bea was curious. Wearing her pink tutu, she sidled up to Josiah where she got down on her hands and knees right next to her cousin. Josiah jumped up.

"I attracted a female!" he cried triumphantly. Then he glanced around. "I need another male!" he announced, "So we can do the fighting thing."

Apparently he was pleased with his first experiment as a male aminal. When neither Granddaddy or his dad offered to take him up on the fighting thing, Josiah got on the floor again and began howling--and was marginally less successful with his singing than with his dancing,

But he received great accolades from the adults, and he is now, at this very moment, eating his reward: four delicious pieces of candy from the gingerbread house.

We,re here. Typing on my sister,s ipad. Super cool but i can,t find the apostrophe. Today sailed over the swells of the puget sound, cascades bright in setting sun.

Here we are in the Pittsburgh airport, waiting for our late airplane. As things fall now, we'll coast into Seattle around 2:30 am our time. Two girls will be quite sleepy, I think. Their mother, and their grandparents, perhaps a tad tired as well. We found a wonderful children's area and Elspeth and Bea are having a lovely time, watching Pittsburgh's own Mr. Rogers and running around a wooden plane and up and down a ramp. Mom just handed me a charming, engaging book, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society; since it's epistolary, it's perfect for airport reading.

Good news includes happy children thus far, and since it's not Christmas, there's no emotional wrench about missing all the magic. Think of us, holding sleeping girls, sailing high up in the air.

Headed Out

If I were smart, I'd go to bed now, chatter my way through getting undressed, plunge myself under the covers, curl into a ball, and wait for my body to warm the sheets. But I won't. I've trained myself; I practice a blind devotion to late hours. I love being awake when the children are sleeping, even after a day like today, where, as my mother aptly described, all events fit into each other like puzzle pieces, tightly without space in between. But I got everything done that I aimed to; last column for December written, last minute shopping accomplished, tea sipped with my dear friend, an interview conducted with Mimi (fabulous woman, fount of history), cakes baked for a University party, supper delivered to a new-baby-family, suitcases packed. At some point soon--perhaps the first morning when I awaken in Seattle with few to no responsibilities--I am fully expecting that Christmas will hit me and I'll be bowled over with joy and peace.

Just as an aside, I've been reflecting on how peaceful, generally, I feel these days, and I think one big reason is that I'm getting to work--a little and in spurts--but work nonetheless, and by this I mean work separate from the very hard work of parenting and running a household. I still balance this, in partnership with Martin, in the context of being with the children, but I find that after I write an article or interview someone, I have renewed energy to get on the floor and play tea party with the sweet girls. I recently saw a lovely mother with a new baby, and any sadness I felt at being "done" with babies evaporated. Ah, I love sleeping through the night; I love children who evidence a semblance of independence, and though I love holding a baby, I am content to give her back to her mother. I shall enjoy this small zen while it lasts. Wish me good speed, friends. I'm headed out of the freezing cold, due west.

At the risk of being Twitteresque and tremendously tedious, I have to share this moment with you. Close your eyes and imagine the warmest thing you can: your father's hand on your head before bed, a cup of tea wrapped by your own fingers, your feet in a basin of steaming water, a baby curled up on your chest, wool blankets wrapped about your shoulders. . .and then you will know how this one blast of sunlight, in the middle of endless days of grey snow, feels right now, flooding over my desk, lighting up the geranium leaf. Blessed shadows.

Also, the gutteral screaming of a two year old, announcing moment is over and naptime is imminent.

Twice-Annual First-Night-of-Exams-Open-House

Over thirty students packed into our warm kitchen and scattered throughout the house. One enormous pot of chili, consumed. Countless pots of chai, sipped and gulped. Double batch of cornbread, slightly overbaked, almost completely eaten. Texas sheet cake: crumbs washed away down the drain. Two students headbanged in the living-room. Everywhere, laughter. My parents arrived, squeezed into the hallway to collect their chili, and then fled upstairs, where they watched a movie with the girls, who eventually trailed upstairs. Nine-thirty: house cleaned,vaccuumed, dishes washed, kitchen mopped. Ten o'clock: bottle of wine, paltry leftovers, Mom, Dad, Martin and I slumped around the kitchen table, enjoying quiet conversation and an empty house. Will we do it again? Gladly we will, in another six months.

Christmas Mash-Up

Merry's question should have been adequate warning for the reaction of an entire room of people, faces flushed with Christmas: "What is the play ABOUT?"

As my friend Elesha (aka, Singer One in the play)said, "It's highly conceptual."

These were my goals as I wrote the script and directed a crew of wild children: to avoid a dry retelling of the classic Christmas story; to evoke a child-like spirit of wonder and questions; to keep the play, and thus the practices, mercifully short.

Basically, as I explained to my friend Sal this morning, the play was a God-spell like Christmas mash-up, with children asking questions, playing drums, singing snippets of Christmas carols, and reading short lines from scripts. They were dressed in a variety of colors and outfits from around the world and scarves were draped over a series of wooden stairs and tiny folding chairs. Granted, the last carol, "Joy to the World," in which the audience was supposed to participate, started in, say, at least three different keys, and may have never totally recovered, but the kids played their drums and Martin banged out a good beat on a metal chair, and even Bea, in her tiny Chinese pantsuit, joined in on the djembe. Afterwards there was a stunned silence into which I yelled, "That's our Christmas celebration for this year! And now we can all EAT!"

Which we did--I flew back to the church kitchen to cut up my Texas sheet cake. And nobody said anything about the Christmas play--not any of the women who came back to retrieve pots of soup or casseroles for the pot-luck table, not any of the men who cleared up afterward. I'm used to Baptists or free-wheeling nondenominationalists or dry but funny Episcopalians who, in their various ways, gush a little more: "Oh, honey, that was so cuuute," a Baptist Texan at Martin's parent's church might have said (I imagined), "Those kids looked so dahlin' up there, and they beat their drums so well."

From the Mennonites, nothing. I couldn't figure out whether it was because one is not supposed to congratulate anyone on their accomplishments, since all the glory is due God, or whether they just all were so confused they had no idea what in the world to say. Finally I dropped a word to young-church-lady Rachel, who was collecting cutlery and setting up the tea bags in little baskets, and she confirmed that the children had really enjoyed themselves. Not a single word from the rest of church-goers, and was I being paranoid when I caught a funny light in the choir director's eyes when she spoke to me later over plates of sloppy joe and unidentifiable food?

Not to worry; I ate a lot of dessert with good people, sang some carols, and the kids beat their drums and waved scarves all evening, through the eating and the sacred singing, creating such a racket on stage that most of us were afraid to watch lest we must chide for irresponsible behavior. But I think all that joyful racket was an indication that THEY GOT IT, they got the Christmas fever, or the Christmas FEVA, man. As I ate my tenth slice of cake, Martin grinned and said, "Just see if they ask YOU to do the Christmas play again!" and we high-fived.

Merry Christmas, people. Rock the season. There's much to celebrate, much play to be had, little cause for overwrought solemnity, more cause for drum-beating and flashes of light and crying babies--and children, like wayward, dirty shepherds, yelling and spreading their raucous joy all over our stages and our lives.

Interested in a rabid opossum and the story of its demise? Find it at my Observer-Reporter column by clicking on the geranium to the right.

Elspeth's Monologues

Sunshine today; slant of light on Elspeth's hands, catching the little copper pot on the dining room table, making it a tiny deposit of summer, bright, gleaming. The girls are playing with new birthday presents: wooden cookies, a pink tea set. There's a bit of a battle raging between the two oldest, who are spreading and organizing perfectly with an eye for precision, and the youngest, who is grabbing all she can, stashing it, trying to share as well but failing, resorting to petty violence, such as whacking her older sister with a wooden lollipop. Martin's unloading the dishwasher and listening to the Car-Talk Brothers, and we are all full of french toast and caffeine and feeling fine despite the columns I have to write/collect information for before leaving for Seattle next week; the sporadic squabbling of the girls; and our varying states of physical unreadiness for the day.

I would like now, fine readers, to enrich your lives with a spot of nonsense, or rather, a storm of nonsense, which was imparted to the small Wazoo world last week by way of Elspeth's mouth as she sat at lunch table. I regret that I only began recording her monologue after she'd been going for a while, but at least I got this--let me set the stage--Elspeth sits across from me, and she's talking to everyone and no-one, and verbalizing this list, for unknown reasons, unless it was just for the joy of saying everything that came into her colorful, candy-like brain:

"Lamp-posters, little monkey tail, a little piglet, a pen with writing, a noodle poster, a washcloth, a tin can, spaghetti and cheese, nose posters, polar bear ears, a hairy, hairy head, an elephant trunk, top of a lamp, a fan, a lamp, a little person's head--"

[at this point she broke into song:] "A boy is made out of nails and yucky stuff! A girl is made out of lovely stuff, like polkadot tails and--" [she narrows her eyes pouts her lips, drops her voice to guttural growl:] "A ROCK STAR!"

[She continues in falsetto:] "How did you ever learn how to use thunder? How about a looky-looker? Where do noodles learn to dance? WHO? Knock-knock door? I definitely forgot about the witch. Haven't you seen the monkey swinging with no tail on? Yes, and how did YOU learn to dance? Anyway, I'm going to give that to a love-wench."

We transitioned here, possibly to nap-time, otherwise the rapid-fire monologue might have continued. And here, dear ones, in the sunshine, the intermittent screams of tension and purrs of contentment, in my Smart-Wool socks and my syrup smells, I leave you. Happy Saturday.

Lovely Gleaming Bit 'O Magic

The more I write, the more I realize how very narrow and well-trod are the paths through my brain.

Last year, I heard a sixth-grader give a report on writing; one of the steps to good writing, he said, was to make a list of your "go-to" words and forbid yourself from using them. There are words that I use as often as I wear my ratty, long, balled sweater in the house; there are images I turn to easily, as I'd turn to one of my children. . .yeah, yeah, there's always the bird, feathers bright against snow/feather bright as blood/etc. image. The gleam of wood/hair/etc. under lamplight. "Gleam" is a favorite word for me these days. It tastes good on my tongue and makes me warm, too, like tea. . .maybe it's a winter word.

Then there are the words I use about a thousand times a day in correspondence and conversation. Lovely is at the top of my list. Fabulous, wonderful. "Brilliant," not quite so bad. A "Jolly" once and a while.

It's absolutely (oh, I use that a lot, too, absolutely, absolutely I do) painful to listen to the recordings of my interviews for the paper, because I have to listen to my own grating voice saying, "That's great," and "Oh, that's so nice," about twenty times every few minutes. I sound like a bumbling idiot, usually because I'm trying to jot down notes as the subject is speaking. Still, it's a terribly (oh, that one too) humbling experience.

Are signature/overused words okay, do you think, in common speech and repartee? Are they like comfortable clothes, after all, or a familiar scent, or do they just stink after a while, like a mouse in your pocket?

Just got good news: one of my poems, Geometry, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and will appear along with two other poems in the upcoming issue of Lamplighter Review. Special thanks to my fabulous in-house editor, Martin B. Cockroft the Magnificent, who pushes me to spare language, simplicity, and good form.

Do heffalumps and woozles like honey?
Well, do they? Elspeth just climbed up on my lap and asked me this.
It's snowing.

One hour later:
Elspeth reached up to hug me tonight and sighed, Mommy. I like you with a pinch of salt.