It's Real

Remember Spring?

How the crocus, like a sun bursting on your tongue, shocked you into seeing again?

When robins fought you for earthworms as you sank your hands into mud,

And the sun, warmer than bathwater, collected in your socks and you flung off your shoes

in the sudden rain, and the rain like mothers singing, stirred you to dance.

Eggshell white day; a blackbird at the top of a poplar on the hill, a robin with velvet belly in the bird tree, ticking his sharp head into the pale sky, jabbering a song I can't hear over the roar of the heater. Inside the house is grey but today it feels good, intimate, and peaceful. Maybe it's the Weepies singing from our stereo: "All this beauty, might have to close your eyes. . .we travelled all night, we drank the ocean dry, watched the sunrise." They're trying to persuade me that every day is ice-cream and chocolate cake. Okay, I believe it.

The girls have hidden fifty acorn tops around the house, and now I must go find them, tiny bits of childhood they've tucked in bookcases and kitchen shelves and behind couch cushions. They're lying on the floor, eating apples and chewing with their mouths open. They are reminding me every twenty seconds, "We can't wait any longer. Come look now." Yes. I embrace my duty.

Eating Crow

I was making lunch for the two little ones while talking to Martin about the short story I've been working on, "Empress Chicken," when another call came in.

"Hello," chirped a cheery voice on the other line. "It's S--."

"Oh, hello, S--," I said, wedging the phone under one ear and slicing apples. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said.

It struck me that S-- was Elspeth's preschool teacher, and I wondered suddenly if Elspeth were sick. Instead S-- continued, "I just wanted to let you know that no one picked up Elspeth today."

Until that second, I had been feeling blithely in control of life--I'd taken the two little ones to the grocery store and the park, the day before I'd finished my column for the week and another draft of the chicken story. The column turned out well and though the chicken short story was borderline garbage, maybe I'd be able to salvage it. I'd finally tackled the piles of laundry that were threatening to burst the walls of our bathroom, and I had a stack of peanut butter sandwiches ready for lunch.

"Elspeth! I forgot Elspeth!" I was more than fifteen minutes late. I've always consoled myself that though I forget everything else, I never forget the children. I can't say that anymore.

"Come on, you two!" I shouted, tearing around the house to grab my keys. Though it was forty degrees outside, I grabbed little E in his sock feet and threw open the door. Beatrix skittered down the sidewalk, barefoot and coatless.

The teachers at the preschool came to the door with big grins on their faces. The oldest said, "Don't worry, honey, it happens to all of us." I did not ask how many of them have ever forgotten their children.

My week so far is indication that maybe I have too much going on. Last night, as I drove home from a friend's house on a road I've driven countless times, I thought abruptly, "I'm going the wrong way!" So I drove for a while down the dusky, twisty road, turned around and started back the other way. Not long after that, the girls said, "We don't recognize any of this, Mommy." I had to admit they were right, so i I pulled off the road, turned around again, and drove back to the place where my mind had gone south. "Have you always turned at the old one room schoolhouse?" I asked myself again, gazing up the darkening road. I pulled the car up the hill and sure enough, I HAVE always turned that way. The girls chorused triumphantly: Told you so! and I fired back, "And THAT'S why you must always put on your shoes and socks when Mommy says. Because Mommy can't drive very well in the dark, see?"

This is not the first time such a familiar road has suddenly become strange to me. This is just the (let's see) eight thousandth time.

Today as I steered the car toward home, I muttered, "I'm becoming my mother." My mother has forgotten me numerous times on street corners and, most notoriously, when I was three months old, at a party. She and my dad went home, undressed, and put my sister to bed. They showed up later at the party in their pyjamas and asked for me, who had fallen asleep on the hostess' floor. My mother and now I celebrate a long tradition of forgetfulness. My greatgrandpa showed up a day late for his passage on the Titanic. This is not a joke. Most of us who suffer from chronic absentmindism do not get such a good story and a second chance at life. Instead, we wonder, as my mother often did and I did today, if we are slipping into early onset dementia. We vow to write everything down so we don't forget it. We consider leaving notes for ourselves with obvious messages like "Don't forget your five-year old at school." And we eat crow as a regular part of our diet.

Pay Attention, Silly

Beatrix, who screamed and poured out water on her sheets all through her nap as I lay down with Elspeth, is sitting on the trampoline with a red rubber spoon, throwing pieces of apple onto the carpet. Dressed in her sheep pjs, with her hair pulled askance from an hour of keeping herself awake, she's testing my appreciation for her sweetness at the moment. Merry is firing off math problems that are impossible for me to do in my head--What's 453 times 9? And then she triumphantly calls out the answer. I think she's cottoned on to my lack of enthusiasm for mentally struggling through the fifth problem, since she just said, "MOMMY. Can you. . .look, listen? Pay attention?"

All I want to do is write a poem or work on my quirky story, "Empress Chicken," which may die in the end, but I want to find out for myself. Bea just hung upside down from the bar on her trampoline and dropped herself on her head. A pause as she assesses whether she's hurt or not. A scream. I love the children, I love the children, I love the children. Why isn't my afternoon cup of tea working?

the Ancient Grumpilo

The heater's rattling away, and if I didn't know that Martin had been out until an hour past dark starting on a new pea bed, I'd half expect snow in the morning, just out of habit.

Overrated things: thriftiness when you feel like celebrating, square-foot gardening and all other super-organized gardening methods, words like "fave" and "most-faved," bloggers who mark each of their photos with massive copyrights, pensive authors on bookjackets, inner pressure to rip out the wild violets in the front flowerbed (they can't help it that they are weeds and the leaves are so shiny and pretty), deadlines of all kinds, feeling cold in springtime, soccer practice three nights a week, rejections containing the phrase "just wasn't right" and that end, "Best of luck," people who complain endlessly on their blogs, . . .ME!

So that's enough from the ancient Grumpilo, who is residing right now in my bladder, grumbling bad talk even though the kids are in bed and my dear one sits beside me looking at photos of an unbelievable garden in Tennessee. I will expel the Grumpilo, fetch myself a cup of chamomile tea, and edit some poems. I wish I could write intricate, transcendent Indian poetry; perhaps that would send the Grumpilo packing forever. But I am not Indian, I'm just plain old pale me, paler still from the Pennsylvania winter. And I am not Greek, either, though I'd like to be, given the chance.

Martin and I sat in the car after work and as I turned the key, he said, "Maybe we should go for gyros," and I had been thinking the EXACT SAME THING (hurrah), so we drove up to the next city with the girls and a bearded man named Costas fixed us up gyros in a tiny restaurant papered with photos of the Greek Isles. Family members and friends dropped in to chat with his wife, a woman with some weight dressed in a low-cut, red dress, with painted eyelashes and such a warm manner that I wanted to be Greek, too, and slice meat on a spit onto pita bread and compare days with my nieces who dropped by on the way home from work. We are not even a tiny percentage Greek, but Elspeth found out she loves stuffed grape leaves.

This blog has no narrative cohesion, I'm afraid. The Grumpilo may be partly to blame. I just glanced despondently over at Martin's laptop and read "Composting Opportunities!" I may eat a banana tonight, and then I, too, could have a composting opportunity. I can hardly wait.

Hope the ancient and cantankerous Grumpilo stays far away from you all tonight.

Monstas are my fwends

Here's Bea, during a rare trip to Banana Republic, finding friends among the headless. She cozied up to the expressionless but well-dressed man, above, looked up at his neck adoringly and said, "Hi, Uncle Noah!" When we showed the photo to Uncle Noah, he pointed out that he does not wear flannel shirts. I think it's interesting that he commented on the attire of the guy instead of the fact that the guy doesn't have a head. Bea also enjoyed holding the hands of the women, whom she did not name (they're dressed better than I ever am, so no wonder).
Late last night, after viewing an independent film ("The Baxter," so quirky and really fun), Martin and I sat up even later pillow-talking about Bea. Oh, she's a funny kid these days.

She'll be three in a couple weeks, but with two older sisters, she thinks she's bigger than that. She loves her independence, and whether it's redressing herself several times in footie pjs, tearing around outside with the older kids, holding the egg beaters or removing something from a high shelf, she likes to announce, "See. I a grownup." Here she is, confidently tackling the crooked house at the Children's Museum in Pittsburgh, shortly before she went up again by herself and panicked at the top of the tunnel-slide. I had to go and retrieve her and felt nauseous for a while afterward. That crooked house makes me want to barf every time.

Among other things, Bea's been trying to convince herself not to be afraid of monsters. A week ago, my mother and I lingered at the supper table, but Bea was done and ready to retrieve something--probably more footie pyjamas--from upstairs in her room. But it was dim and there was nobody else upstairs.

"You can do it," we told her, and she stamped off with a little swagger, which is her independent walk. We heard her footsteps stop at the bottom of the stairs, and then she came back again.

"There are no monsters in this house," she announced, and thus reassured, she turned around and walked back toward the stairs. Back she came. "I not scared," she said, extending her hand and waving it in the air as if we were concerned. The same thing happened, and she was back again, gesturing at us and glancing off toward the corner of the room. "I a grownup!" she said finally, and then she was off again--this time she bravely made it all the way into the murky upstairs all by herself.

Last night, right before bed, she told Martin, "There are no monsters in this house." She paused and thought about it some more. "Monsters are my fwends," she said, and went on to explain that there were two mommy monsters with baby monsters whom (I guess) live in our house with us, named Cali and Cooloo.

I hope they're not hungry tonight, because I'm just planning enough dinner for five. That's not to say any of you aren't welcome to drop by, assuming you eat a bit less than monsters.

At the Eisenstat's Farm

Bea wasn't too sure about the goat kids, how they wanted to nuzzle, untie shoelaces, and taste buttons. There's our friend Mike Eisenstat, my mom, Bea, and a kid.
My mom and I provided lots of giddy, girly laughter, which just got more shrill when I found that a large butterscotch cat had jumped into the Subaru and trapped herself. She leapt into the closed windows, first to the left, then to the right, until I lifted the hatch and she tore down the dirt driveway like a bat out of hell.
When we went to see the clutch of hens, I kept feeling a phantom goat tugging at the cuff of my jeans. Who knows what psychological damage the cat incurred.

I really could write volumes, but I've already written the story of Toboggan Farm, and you can read it this Sunday in the O-R. Just click on the white geranium at right.

Just last week. . .

There's a soft, fuzzy head tucked under my chin as I type, so I'm not sure how many words I'll be able to share with you today. The owner of the velvet head is tucking two stuffed dogs, a plastic cupcake, and various other things into a purple Kenyan purse. The forsythia on my table has gone wild, a mass of lemon-colored blooms, and the smell of angel food cake baking fills the house. . .if I weren't supposed to be readying the house for a women's luncheon, I'd be perfectly comfortable to sit here in my robe for a few more hours, typing away.

Outside, it looks like February again--gray, flurrying snow, a few black birds flying low and swift over the tops of bristling tree branches.

And it was only last week that our garden felt like a park, with our friends and neighbors congregating in the garden to dig, trim, run and roll in the grass. The girls and their friends rode down the hill in the wagon numerous times, made soup from wild onions, and frolicked like puppies that have been locked in a pen for four months.

Spring. Come back, sun, and bring the tulips. Whoops, angel food cake is possibly burning. . .gotta dash.

A Park in Hanoi, A Book to Read

Once again, here's a letter from my father in Hanoi (I edited it just a bit for brevity). His description of the park reminds me of the picture book I just read to Bea and her friend, E, a wonderful account by Fumiko Takeshita of a white park bench. The illustrations, by Japanese artist Mamoru Suzuki, which depict the park over one day, are charming as well as engrossing. (You can find the book at Alibris and used at Amazon--I highly recommend it).

Here's my Dad's Vietnamese park experience:

I had one of those disjointed moments this afternoon that seem to characterize my life. I had finished early at the office so after dropping things off at the room I walked to the lake near the office, dodging the motorbikes that use the sidewalks during rush hour.

It's probably about half a mile around the lake and there were many making the circuit, joggers, older and younger people, courting couples, kids with their moms or grand moms and the stray motorbike here and there and one very tiny, very nervous, very lost chihuahua dog wearing a home knit sweater. To my right, older men gathered around what resembles a checkerboard but playing a far more complex game. The circle of mostly elderly men squatted or leaned over the two playing the game, freely and enthusiastically offering their advice.

On my second clockwise circuit just before the last turn that took me back to the entrance I passed the most noisy part of the park. About 35 women, mostly young, radiated from an athletic woman leading them in aerobic dancing to loud Vietnamese pop music.

Just beyond them were the small mechanical kid's rides--one little train and a small and very mild whirly gig. The tinny sound track for the rides provided counterpoint to the jazz.

A new track began and to my surprise the tune was familiar. The female vocalist had (what is to my ears) the thin voice that seems traditionally to characterize popular songs in Asia before the advent of MTV. But. . .I had sung to that tune for as long as I can remember.

Sounding out over the lake and the hundreds of people of all ages from elderly kibitzers to the young couple. . .was, in Vietnamese accented English, "Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head." It went through all the verses.

And so somehow on my last evening walk of this trip things come around, confusing East and West, English and Vietnamese, Lent and Christmas.

Love,
Mere
*******

Splendid March

Forsythia, Tulips, Daffodil, Beatrix

Just a little sentimental. . .

Am I sentimental? I don't think so, at least not overly so; I accepted my great-grandmother's bone china tea cups and I have a hard time throwing away anything that bears my mother's handwriting. But I don't frame a lot of photos or hold onto keepsakes forever--I tend to think that a thing that embodies a person is less important than the person her/himself, whom I know is a part of me whether I'm holding something they gave me ten years ago or not.

Now that four people have joined me in life, I am becoming more and more unsentimental. When something breaks, I remind myself that it's just a THING, and one less thing that I have to protect now.

So when Merry broke the heads off my post-pregnancy, new-baby sculpture my sister-in-law gave me long ago, I felt a pang of remorse but I moved on quickly, dropping the heads and then the decapitated figures into the bottom of the trashcan. This graceful woman with her baby perched on her stomach had long perched on the bookcase in Merry's and Elspeth's room, but I didn't think they were particularly attached to it--Merry evidently wasn't, since she unceremoniously yanked a book from underneath the sculpture and showed less than your average sorriness as she recounted how mother and child had lost their noggins. . .which, all in all, was surprising, since she has always been the most sentimental of all the children.

I didn't think again of the sculpture until Elspeth said, "Mommy, I miss that woman with her baby who used to be in our room."

I was surprised that Elspeth cared, but I convinced her that the heads could not be glued back on and we just had to let it go.

The next day, this is what I found:

Poor Elspeth. Better a headless mother and child by her bed than none at all, I guess.

Swifts can sleep while they're flying.
New, wonderful fact.
A baby goat tried to nibble off my button today and a ginger cat got stuck in my car and almost brained herself trying to get out, flinging herself over and over at the backseat windows.
The robins scolded Martin for not going inside when twilight fell; they seemed to think they owned the newly turned earth.
More wonderful things.
(The cat was okay).

Just a little bit of history repeating. . .

Bea seems to have ripped some pages from Elspeth's book.

One morning last week, Mom and I paused in our tea and coffee drinking: Bea had been AWFULLY quiet. . .TOO quiet. We climbed the stairs but we couldn't find Bea until my mother observed, "Your bedside table seems to be rocking back and forth."

I found Bea wedged in the white legs of my rickety table. She had scaled my bookcase to retrieve my make-up, and with the mediums of mascara and lipstick with possible use of permanent marker, she had created a masterpiece: Bride of Frankenstein meets Geisha Girl. She was in disgrace when I snapped these pictures, so I tried to hide my admiration for her particularly original and precise application.

St. Patty's Day Madness at Wazoo

The garden's EN FUEGO!!!

Yesterday was so unbelievably beautiful that we spent almost every minute outside. I finally liberated my spring bulbs from the dry overgrowth that I allow to stay every winter. Laden with snow, the butterfly bushes, which grow to the size of small trees, look magical, and the tangle of Russian Sage appears silvery and delicate on dull, grey mornings. The birds love hiding places and seed heads, and besides, I'm always sick of tending to the garden in the fall.

But it was quintessential spring yesterday, and the poor crocus felt a little sickly and the tulips and daffs were a bit grumpy and felt taken for granted, so I wielded my pruners and liberated them.

The purple crocus, which had been pinched and wizened, found the sun. It threw back its petals and gave a wolf cry from deep within its golden throat. When I stepped back outside after a little break, this is what I found:

I'll give a quick photo tour of the other highlights of our day. . .
. . .My good luck charms--two of them, anyway.

My friend Michelle came for the Irish feast adequately prepared. I give you, the sushi 'o the Irish:

My mother, another lucky charm, peeling the tatties.

My classy tribute to St. Patrick's day (I also tried my feet at a jig):

And a special visit from Kerry O'Malley, who brought us good luck out the wazoo.

Hope your St. Patty's was just as delightful. Happy Friday, all.

Luck 'O the Irish

We may not have a drop of Irish blood (we're Finnish/Scottish/English/French mongrels), but we love St. Patty's Day. . .and here's the sun, making a special appearance, inspiring us to put away our gloom and follow our Irish step-dancing hearts to the nearest market to buy a corned beef brisket. We found a good recipe and though our local grocery store did not even NOD at St. Patrick by showcasing cabbage or tatties, Mom and I are going to poke around until we find a plump leafy head and a mouthwatering corned beef. And then we're going to roast the lot in beer.
Find this icon and more here.
Of course St. Patrick was not the Saint of brew pubs and cabbage boil, even though I'm tempted to slap garish green shamrocks all over my body; nor is he the saint of pinched elementary students or the cause of the snakes' flight out of Ireland. I did a little research to find out what sort of reflections I should engage in on my corned beef hunt--actually, a better time to think on St. Patrick would be while the brisket is slowing roasting in the oven--and though Patrick's story is compelling in itself, I was happy to find at this site the Breastplate of St. Patrick. . .Below, I pasted my favorite parts; the first reads like a poem and the last is, of course, a much-loved ancient prayer.

I bind unto myself today
The virtues of the starlit heaven,
The glorious sun's life-giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind's tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea,
Around the old eternal rocks.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, and may we show brave love to each person we encounter today.

Letter from Dear Old Dad in Hanoi

*For a great, basic map of Hanoi, visit THIS CNN SITE. For a personal, humorous account of a visit to Hanoi, please keep reading.

My father has more interesting things to say today than I do, so I thought I'd share his latest e-mail with all of you.
* * * * * *
Subject: Freezing and dining in Hanoi

When I left my house to fly to Bangkok, I debated whether or not to bring my LLBean gore-tex rain jacket and an extra long sleeve shirt. I'm sure glad that I did. It's about 6:30 PM and the rain is pouring and wind is gusty outside. The temperature is probably in the low 50s.

I'm in the same hotel in Hanoi where I stayed last time. I think that it was probably built by to emulate a French style. There is a long, slightly curved outside staircase to my room with very uneven and steep concrete stairs, broad at the bottom and narrowing at the top.

It is a relatively small room with two single beds, a very large wardrobe, two small tables, a night stand, three chairs, none of which are comfortable, a suitcase table and a desk that is wholly occupied by an older TV. There are a greater range of English channels than at the hotel in Bangkok but the sound does not work and the picture is what those of my generation termed "snowy".

There is insufficient space to fully open the wardrobe doors without hitting the side of the first bed. I might be able to move the second bed a bit closer to the window, that will not shut securely, but the bedside lamp fixture prevents moving the first bed.

The bathroom is one an open designs with no partitions or curtains over the hosed shower anywhere so that the shower-a hose with a small spray at the end washes the outside of the closely situated toilet. The toilet tissue cannot be kept in close proximity to the toilet itself less it become soaked with water so it is located about three steps away at the other end of the bathroom, thereby providing an incentive to remember its remote location before sitting down.

Nobody at the desk understands English. They've added wireless since I came but nobody knew the WEP key this evening.

The pluses-it is a 30 second commute to the office. It is very clean. There is a lot of hot water. There is A/C (important on my last stay but not this one) and it's secure. It's also 30 dollars a night.

I went out in the rain to look for a place to eat. I knew that there were some in the next business area over but it was frigid with wind blown rain coming down. I tried a couple but neither served food though food appeared on the menu of one of them.

I finally went into one, open to the front but deep enough to be warm if I kept my jacket on. There was also nobody smoking. I thought to have pho but there were the hot dishes spread in the front so I pointed. Nobody knew English.
I recognized beef, pork, and fish dishes with veggies so I chose the one I didn't know. Turned out to be liver but not bad and probably not enough to mess up my cholesterol too much since it's probably been three decades since I had it. I chose a large portion of really good stir-fried spinach, and another portion of some delicious meat and veggie balls of uncertain origins. The cook threw in a large portion of steaming rice, a hard-boiled egg rolled in an unknown but tasty coating to round out my shot of cholesterol, and a bowl of hot soup.

It was good. There was an elderly woman there who greeted me warmly with the only words I recognized, "Good evening" but in French. I replied in kind and greeted her again when I left. I knew how to say "Good evening" in French if not to write it!

The cost of tonight's feast was only 30,000 dong or $1.25.

This was in great contrast to last night in Bangkok. I was tired and it looked like rain so I went down to the Japanese place in the housing development where Richard lives. I have to admit that the relatively small piece of fish that I enjoyed was wonderfully cooked and the small accompanying dishes were beautifully presented, each one in its own specialized container that was laid on the table only in its rightful place and one other. No muti-compartmented
stainless steel tray for the Japanese.

In spite the ambiance, though, the overall experience was unnerving. The wait staff consisted of four or perhaps five women, all but one young and with a core group of gigglers in the bunch. I was their only customer. There is such a thing as too much attention. I know that over 30 years of living and traveling internationally, I've brought laughter into the lives of many but usually they are not grouped at the other end of the room waiting for my water glass to fall below the three-quarters mark. At one point, forgetting that my glass had once more been filled to the top, picked it up and, without looking, tried to begin drinking from where I had left off. My shirt escaped a wetting but not my mustache and therefore my chin, since wet mustaches drip. And I had only the ever-present already dampened and scented white cloth with which to clear the dampness. I did not even look up.

I'm not too bad with chopsticks but having an audience does little to improve my dexterity in trying to separate a wonderfully flaky fish from its outer skin without any cutting tool. As the remaining fish grew cooler the flakes clung more tightly to the skin. As the remaining fish grew lighter there was no longer of sufficient weight so that attempts to separate flaky flesh from its increasing adherent skin became virtually impossible. I finally admitted defeat and became multi-cultural, using the acceptable Thai utensils of fork and tablespoon to separate the flesh and the chopsticks to eat it. The final cost of the dinner reminded me why I seldom eat Japanese.

Time to end this and wrap myself in a blanket.

Isn't life fun?

Cheers,

Meredith
W Meredith Long, DrPH
Senior Director of International Programs
World Concern
* * * * *
And I was going to write about yet another grey day and a trip to the store to track down corned beef. Glad my Dad had more to say. To find out more about World Concern, click here: World Concern

thoughts

Honestly, it looks as if the greenish baby is a bust. Sad, that the next-to-last Sunday Add-A-Caption should be so bereft of your smart captions. But I can't think of a single one, so I don't blame you. Anyway, I'll let it run for a while and see if you can dig anything up.

It's sunny and lovely and Mom and I are enjoying thirty minutes of quiet before the next thing. Life is so full of "next things" that it's hard to just stay in a moment--a cliche, I know, but true for all of us. I can't seem to reconcile all the pieces of things right now--the devastation in Japan, the thoughts that I am fortunate to sit down at my kitchen table, drink tea, pour milk into my cereal, and the realization that people have to eat and grieve at the same time. Looking at the images yesterday, I was struck by a man's face, crumpled in despair as he read a list of the names of the dead; I wondered, was he mourning a specific person, his wife or child or mother, or was he just overwhelmed by the sheer weight of those names? And that man, with worlds of loss inside of him, will have to stand in line for food, because he is alive and still needs to eat. It seems as if some other reality entirely should descend when a whole country is shaken and torn--God should send a respite from hunger and thirst, a tent you may enter where you will be healed completely.

And what material is sure, if not the earth that holds us as we walk and run and sleep? Writers point to the sky; that is the one thing that is steady and expansive above us, and I know that during a period of sadness and worry I found great solace in the sky. I was sitting in a parking lot, overcome by heaviness, and I looked up at a late summer sky, so blue and detached from all my petty doings, and I felt comforted. I wish all that we love, our children and life partners, our parents, our friends, gardens, homes, the smell of our mothers cooking and the sound of our father's laughter, our ability to love it all--I wish it were all as sure as the sky, that we could awaken and know all those things would be waiting for us, because they always have been and they always will.

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME

Look carefully at the baby. . .looks like she/he's been pretty busy. Happy Sunday and happy captioning!

Headaches and Cupcakes

Well, my dears, it is so cold again that up in my office my fingers are stiff and almost unusable. I feel as if I have the digits of a robot; no flow and ebb, no warm core. I'm layered in sweaters and socks and slipper-boots. I am a frozen puddle, no river, no creek rolling over stones and turtles. I think I'd like to be a water bug with legs as thin as eyelashes, skating the golden/green lips of the stillest part of the creek, deep mud down below and sky, so far away, held in the arms of a sycamore tree. And the river and the water bug and the sky and the white sycamore, all whispering to each other:
Hot day, hot day, hot day, cool river. . . .

And here I am again, complaining about winter when we're about to topple into spring if I can just be patient enough--well, whether or not I'm patient, spring will still arrive--and the lilac buds are just greening and the tulip leaves are like fists of ribbons, and the sun is somewhere far above us, in the mouths of the clouds--if only they'd spit my sun out, roll it out on their tongue like a glowing lozenge. I'd like to hold the sun on MY tongue, and swallow it, and beam out all my orifices--SHAZAM! and breathe it into chilly people and the beaks of tired birds and into the ears of the sidewalk, so cracked and gray is the sidewalk right now!

Friday does this to me, you know. Last night in the middle of talking to dear Martin, who is at a conference in Indianapolis, my eyes went to Vegas, all twinkling and crazy, and I spent the beginnings of a migraine drinking tea, eating a cupcake and watching TV with my mother, after which I dropped in bed uncommonly early and slept it away. And this morning only the bolts of a headache remained clattering around in the back of my skull and all seems to be well again.

And beer is in order this afternoon, partly to celebrate another story being taken at another journal.

So hurrah, and Happy Friday and Friday libations to you, my dears.

The Birds Have the Best Liquor

Where are all the birds this morning? Have they flown off to an underground bunker where a fat robin in a waistcoat is serving worm margaritas and sunflower seed wafers? They know, as I know only because of radar and the weatherpeople, that a big snow is due to hit us this evening, dumping masses of wet, icy slush all over us, the hopeful tulip leaves, and the sickly grass. The robins have taken cover. They'll be smoking cigars somewhere tonight by a roaring fire.

The creek at the bottom of the hill is frothing close to the banks. We've had steady rain for days now.

Oh! I see a couple of tiny blackbirds in the Bird Tree outside my window--what are those sharp-beaks called? And they're off. Someone reminded them to get out of open air. Right now the air is mild and heavy. When I stepped out with the garbage, it felt like a May morning.


My mother is drying her hair (a novelty around here--Bea was so entranced yesterday that she summoned her friend E to come and watch, as excited as if there were elephants pouring tea); my father is in Bangkok; Martin is off on a conference, the girls are speaking in falsettos while they fix a pretend party. Elspeth just told Beatrix, "Your mother died!"

"Oh, no!" Bea said.

"And your father died!" Elspeth continued.

"Oh, no!"

"And there's a monster, and a robot, and a witch!"

"That's terrible!"

I am pushing my luck. In two minutes my mother will come around the corner and say, "Oh, my! You're not dressed yet!"

Better scoot.

PS. I just saw a rather tipsy chickadee stagger off the end of our deck. That's the last time she has a cocktail before ten a.m. Silly bird.

Rainy Day Ramble

Beatrix and her little friend, E, hunker down like little hedgehogs under the table by my feet. I can hear them whispering and now Bea's singing a little snippet of Baby Beluga, to which Ethan is singing a reply: Baby Beluga, POOP! Bea snaps, YUCK! as if she herself does not engage in the potty humor rather frequently. My friend T and I used to reflect that being stand-up comedians for a bunch of two and three-year olds would be facile--we'd just stand up there and yell, PEE PEE! POOP! etc. (just add any bodily function that's mildly yucky at times). We'd pack a full house, no doubt.

For older kids we'd change our routine slightly, adjusting to their cognitive levels by encasing the potty humor in story and adding various unlikely tragedies, such as arms, legs, entire heads falling off or being consumed by wild animals. Insert slightly more sophisticated language, a couple of sexual innuendos and a few pop culture references, and we'd engage the older folks in the audience as well. (You've got. . .SNL!) T and I have it all figured out, and when we quit our various day/night jobs, we'll make a fortune on the comedic stage.

Currently my mother is sleeping off an all-nighter on the plane from Seattle (personal party consisted of a glass of wine followed by sleeping all night in a snug economy seat). We picked her up yesterday morning and wined and dined her; the children swarmed her and peppered her with their stories and she fell asleep at eleven in our living room chair. Of course, right now, it's only 6:30 her time.

Bea just pointed to me and reminded E, "That's Uncle Kim!" To her, it's just a matter of having a peanut or a bagina, and I thought she'd figured out which one her mother had. I think it's just a matter of slipped semantics. We can't expect consistent accuracy from anyone in monster footie-jammies with a slightly runny nose.

Spring rain today; rather dreary but good for earthworms waking from their snarled sleep. Good day for ducks and extra cups of tea and a good ramble with wellies, if one had wellies. How I long to be British and storybooky and beautiful and practical with my bright wellingtons and cups of tea sitting just so in saucers after the rather soggy but romantic country ramble.

Instead I am American and slightly unkempt, inside without bright boots, but happy all the same with my mug of tea. And here I end my increasingly incoherent wandering. Hope the weather is lovely where you are.

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME: WINNER

From the relatively sparse but excellent pool of captions this week, our judge has chosen a winner: Anonymous!

Employing Cowgirl Annie for their new ad campaign was a desperate effort to add some glamour and sex-appeal to a car model usually associated with stocky, round little people.

Your reward: a book, "Everyday Choices," by the acclaimed author, Hayley Una Lykli. Lykli (but Hayley Una) deals with conundrums such as, "If you were forced to choose whether to drown in a giant pond of ketchup or mayonnaise, which one would you choose?"

Speaking of mayonnaise, you'll definitely want to check out the Hoagie Controversy in our little town by clicking HERE. Don't forget to read the comments.

SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME

Go to it, ladies and gents. Come up with some more doozies.

Fiction, Full of Danger

I spent much of yesterday moving area rugs and cleaning the floors underneath. Tiny treasures, such as stale cheerios, old goldfish crackers, pieces of Lego and wooden beads abounded. Moving the furniture by myself (wedging my back under and table and lifting, turtle-like) to smooth out area rugs was a delight--not a necessity, since Martin would have lent a hand, but my preference, because then I don't have to worry about any grumpiness but mine. I couldn't possibly lift the piano, though I tried, so I had to wait for a little extra help. I hate it when I can't do things all by myself. Hmm. Maybe that's where the girls get their sometimes-alarming, mostly-encouraging independence.

Merry just cornered me in the dining room and told me about a book that her friend Cat had read and hated. Turns out the blurb on the back amounted to what they thought was false advertising: it told about the friendship between a boy and a girl, all the wonderful things they did, and the cover showed the smiling little girl about to cross a rope bridge over a rushing river. Unfortunately, Merry says, at the very end of the book, the little girl gets swept into the same river and dies. "Can you believe it?" she says. "It's AWFUL. Why would they have to do that in a story? The mom or dad could have died, and that would have been better. But not the KID." Merry was so upset her eyes were almost watering. It seemed like a good opportunity to talk about fiction, but Merry was not persuaded by any of my arguments. "They were supposed to have good times," Merry said, "The book is actually called the name of the river. That's the main part of the story--" Merry stares at me with incredulous eyes--"She dies."

I felt the same way about "Mill on the Floss," but I had to read through two million pages to get to the final drowning scene. Fiction. It's full of pitfalls. Better to avoid it altogether and focus on daily activities, like moving enormous pieces of furniture.

:) Happy Friday, everyone.

A Little Rant

You know that advertisement when people do stupid things while talking on their cell phone and their neighbor turns to them and says, "REALLY?" Well, that's how Martin felt last night when he went to a memorial service for a student who was recently killed in a traffic accident and sat next to a guy who texted and browsed the internet on his cell phone. REALLY? You'd think at least death would have coaxed that fellow to put away his technology.

Since Martin and I turned in our cell phones more than seven years ago, we've "outside" the cell phone culture, and the cell phone now astonishes us. Increasingly it takes people away from each other's very real presence--I've been on a walk with someone in a beautiful place when they picked up a call and chatted to a person hundreds of miles away--for a good part of our stroll. It didn't make any sense to me--I felt increasingly invisible even though I was present in the flesh, and the person on the other end of the call--an important person but not THERE--received all the attention of my walking partner. Same thing while riding in a car, which I see as a great social interaction UNLESS the person in the passenger seat is locked into a conversation with someone in California. OR. . .wait for it. . .you're sitting with people you love in your kitchen or living room and a person you love becomes so wrapped up in her internet browser on her cell phone that, when you finally leave, she barely glances up at you. Cell phones: possibly ending real community everywhere.

Mind you, most people I know well don't engage in bad cell phone behavior, but occasionally my jaw drops, like Martin's seatmate last night. And before I go all Wendell Barryish on all of you and engage in more badly written arguments about nameless people, I'll close with a weather report.

Sunny, sunny, sunny. I feel like hauling the rugs outside and beating out all the winter doldrums.

I can't resist one last comment. In all honesty, I enjoyed my mother's cell phone usage yesterday when I was able to chat with her as she shopped in Washington State. . .I would have much rather been next to her, digging through scarves, but chatting on and on was the next best thing. And am I not depriving my children of my full attention now by typing out this silly blog entry? In all honesty, I don't think they're missing me at the moment, but in interest of full disclosure, there it is.

Spring Laundry

Laundry is for the birds.
I have hired a passel of robins to grip socks,
underwear, light blouses in their beaks.
They coast down the stairs to the laundry room.
Occasionally en route they leave muddy white ink blots
on the floor, but I don't care,
as long as they're taking care of the children's
clothes, stinking of crayons and spring mud
and cafeterias. In return
for neat stacks that the birds nudge into drawers
I provide platters of coiling worms,
dug fresh out of the garden. It's a good swap:
the robins indoors, singing to themselves as they work,
I in the rows of chilly dirt, dreaming of sugar snap peas
and of being a bird.

early spring sunshine

Is there anything more wonderful than sunshine dappling a frosty hill, a squirrel climbing up a bare branch, the shadow of a bird, a third cup of hot tea, children singing as they play their own games?

Martin ordered sugarsnap and snow pea seeds last night--St. Patty's Day is the magic pea-planting deadline, and though yesterday I would have looked at you incredulously if you'd mentioned the garden, today I can feel the hoe and rake quaking with excitement. . .almost, almost time for us to sink into the soft spring earth again, to feel earthworms about our tines. Our friend Mike has a great big pile of sh--- for us to load into the back of our pick up and spread over our winter-parched beds, and Martin, bright faced, (excitement comes easy at Wazoo Farm) announced this morning that there's a new compost pile ready for all the scraps from last year's garden. I leave the garden full of seeds and twigs and all last year's growth for the birds and cats--the birds love stripping the dried flower heads and the garden cats love to have a bit of a jungle to paw through--little cat prints in the snow make me feel happy, as if the garden is still serving a happy purpose even in the wintertime.

Bea's plastered the red end of a plastic stethoscope to my shoulder and is listening very carefully. I hope she finds a pulse in such an unlikely place. I want to be alive for a very long time.