I'm sitting in our sunroom, which is warm as an oven, listening to my mother reading Curious George to Bea and her friend, Ethan. That is a true act of love--this particular Curious George book goes on and on, a series of incidents loosely connected by careless disasters. . .hmm. Sounds familiar.
It's been an exhausting few days here. I have been forcing myself to eat regularly, even when my stomach feels as though it's been shaken. I don't even know what to write here. Details have unfolded which are bewildering, shocking, and deeply troubling. Those of you whom we know well here, please don't hide your anger or sadness when you are with us. It helps us to live vicariously through you as we continue to try to live through this with grace.
In the middle of all of it, I feel protected, as if each of you who love us have built thick walls of love around us. Like Ethan or Bea inside of their tent this morning that I built for them out of chairs and blankets, I sit inside of this shady, precious place, and I am so grateful.
I wish I could write more, I wish I could explain more. Maybe someday, hopefully soon.
In the meanwhile, we've had some good belly laughs. Some things are humorous, especially when we can step back and look at things objectively. Some things are too sad to laugh at, but we're trying to find a way. On Saturday night, we attended a magic show at the University. During the amazing finale, the magician asked for a volunteer. Martin sprung up on the stage with a jaunty step.
The magician shouted, "For my next trip, sir, I will need to borrow your career."
Martin obliged.
The magician held it up--a heavy thing with carefully sanded sides--for the audience. "Look carefully at it from every angle," the magician said. "From the top! The sides! The bottom!" We gazed at it. It was a beautiful thing.
Then the magician whisked his cape over it. "Presto!" he shouted, and there was a puff of smoke. The audience gave an audible gasp. It was gone--disappeared into thin air. Slight of hand, the magician bowed and Martin descended the stage. Nobody knew why it had disappeared. Nobody knew how or when.
Surprisingly, Martin seemed intact, even though he'd lost this wonderful thing--he sighed deeply as he came back to his seat. "Well, I guess this isn't the place for me any more," he said. The audience was done, too. They stood up and left with us, and we all went out for a drink and to wonder about how the trick had been executed.
And over the next few days, we learned about the trick that made the thing disappear into thin air, and it wasn't such a great mysterious magic after all. And Martin walked back to the stage and found it where it had dropped to the floor, and it was better, smoother, and more beautiful for its fumbled fall--and he put it under his arm and we left again, to walk on to a good place.
It was supposed to be funny but now it just seems tragic, especially after I talked to Martin this afternoon, and heard his voice--exhausted, wearied, drained. I keep thinking things will get easier, and they will. When I think of how fast our lives have changed, I feel dizzy and nauseous. I'll keep returning to the tent to sit for a while, to center myself before walking back out into the fray.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Saturday, February 25, 2012
On Thursday, I walked home from Sally's house through an unusually warm, beautiful afternoon. The sun illuminated the roofs of the University on the hill and the earth smelled warm, of thawing and early spring. The first robin I've seen in months hopped toward a round carpet of delicate white snowdrops. Beatrix ran up and down hills that I have come to know so well.
Earlier that afternoon, Sally and I had been raking leaves away from her bulbs, clipping back a bush already studded with pink buds. Bea and her buddy, Will, ran around the yard, yelling to each other, making a muddy hill covered with sycamore sticks. They have known each other since Will's birth three years ago. Sal and I have known each other like sisters through many years. In many ways, she is my link to the wider community of Greene County; she is my thread to her fine family, whom she shares with me generously, but more importantly, she has been my sister through the many happinesses and griefs of the past years, one of many dear friends here who have brought us so much joy.
Finally we reached home; the bus whined by and Elspeth and Merry burst in the door. Shortly after their arrival and the flurry of snacks and school news, the mail carrier arrived and rang the doorbell. "Certified letter for you," she said.
I signed the form. "Isn't it a lovely day?" I asked, and she agreed.
We met Martin out on a little bricked street not far from our house, where we extended our walk through the warm afternoon. Elspeth and Bea ran ahead down the broken sidewalk. Martin told me about his day; we discussed how, despite its many imperfections, this place where we live is a good place, full of beauty and grace.
At home I handed him the envelope from the University, where he has unconditionally poured his energy, love, and thought for the last almost seven years. He slit the envelope and pulled out one piece of paper. There was a moment of silence as we stared at the letter. Martin looked up at me with stunned eyes. "I was not granted tenure or promotion," he said.
In that moment, our entire reality shifted, almost as if the room had comically swung around in a full circle. It was the singular feeling that I have experienced only a few times in my life: the sudden shattering of what you hoped was certain, the entrance of a new and unwelcome reality.
For those of you who are not familiar with academia, this letter means that Martin will be employed at the University for one more year. After that, we are cut loose.
In the past day, we have reeled with the new reality of our situation. We have felt upset but mostly we have felt deeply grieved, faced now with the very likely conclusion of our time here: a sudden move, the uprooting of our children from people they have known since birth, or for Merry, since she was two; the departure from a community that we have tirelessly invested ourselves in. There are many things that we weep for.
But we are overcome by gratitude for the support of our community, both here and elsewhere. Martin feels support from his colleagues; we can't get into the details of the situation, but suffice it to say that Martin does not feel betrayed by anyone whom he deeply trusted, and so the sense of betrayal is small and much easier to forgive; betrayal by those whom you trust and love is shattering and that, mercifully, we have been spared in every respect.
Martin and I both reflected that this past 30 hours has been much like being at your own funeral, annointed by the love of many good people. Martin's job may have been taken from him, but the things that really make us who we are--our family, our vision and convictions, the many threads of love from so many people--these things nobody can ever take from us, not really, because they are held by God's hands, and in that place, we are truly safe.
Last night, Sally saw Luis, Nancy's oldest son, at the grocery store. "Did you hear about Uncle Martin?" he asked her. "I'm going to do what I can for him," he said, "Because he's family."
What more could we ask for? Family, near and far, surrounding us with the currents of their love. We are more grateful and humbled than we can express.
Earlier that afternoon, Sally and I had been raking leaves away from her bulbs, clipping back a bush already studded with pink buds. Bea and her buddy, Will, ran around the yard, yelling to each other, making a muddy hill covered with sycamore sticks. They have known each other since Will's birth three years ago. Sal and I have known each other like sisters through many years. In many ways, she is my link to the wider community of Greene County; she is my thread to her fine family, whom she shares with me generously, but more importantly, she has been my sister through the many happinesses and griefs of the past years, one of many dear friends here who have brought us so much joy.
Finally we reached home; the bus whined by and Elspeth and Merry burst in the door. Shortly after their arrival and the flurry of snacks and school news, the mail carrier arrived and rang the doorbell. "Certified letter for you," she said.
I signed the form. "Isn't it a lovely day?" I asked, and she agreed.
We met Martin out on a little bricked street not far from our house, where we extended our walk through the warm afternoon. Elspeth and Bea ran ahead down the broken sidewalk. Martin told me about his day; we discussed how, despite its many imperfections, this place where we live is a good place, full of beauty and grace.
At home I handed him the envelope from the University, where he has unconditionally poured his energy, love, and thought for the last almost seven years. He slit the envelope and pulled out one piece of paper. There was a moment of silence as we stared at the letter. Martin looked up at me with stunned eyes. "I was not granted tenure or promotion," he said.
In that moment, our entire reality shifted, almost as if the room had comically swung around in a full circle. It was the singular feeling that I have experienced only a few times in my life: the sudden shattering of what you hoped was certain, the entrance of a new and unwelcome reality.
For those of you who are not familiar with academia, this letter means that Martin will be employed at the University for one more year. After that, we are cut loose.
In the past day, we have reeled with the new reality of our situation. We have felt upset but mostly we have felt deeply grieved, faced now with the very likely conclusion of our time here: a sudden move, the uprooting of our children from people they have known since birth, or for Merry, since she was two; the departure from a community that we have tirelessly invested ourselves in. There are many things that we weep for.
But we are overcome by gratitude for the support of our community, both here and elsewhere. Martin feels support from his colleagues; we can't get into the details of the situation, but suffice it to say that Martin does not feel betrayed by anyone whom he deeply trusted, and so the sense of betrayal is small and much easier to forgive; betrayal by those whom you trust and love is shattering and that, mercifully, we have been spared in every respect.
Martin and I both reflected that this past 30 hours has been much like being at your own funeral, annointed by the love of many good people. Martin's job may have been taken from him, but the things that really make us who we are--our family, our vision and convictions, the many threads of love from so many people--these things nobody can ever take from us, not really, because they are held by God's hands, and in that place, we are truly safe.
Last night, Sally saw Luis, Nancy's oldest son, at the grocery store. "Did you hear about Uncle Martin?" he asked her. "I'm going to do what I can for him," he said, "Because he's family."
What more could we ask for? Family, near and far, surrounding us with the currents of their love. We are more grateful and humbled than we can express.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
More from Red Barn Farm, the small paradise belonging to Llew and Jeannie Williams. Of course, it's a paradise they have to work at morning, noon, and night, and therefore one that I was happy to experience but happy to leave in their capable hands.
Martin took all the photos in a visual journal that is incredibly lengthy for the brief half day we spent there. He saw the farm through the camera lens and I saw it through my tape recorder, which I took along with me to help me with an article later. Much of our lives, I guess, are filtered through such lenses; I realized lately when I started working on a new project that everything I have been collecting and haven't had the time to translate into story had come pouring out, rather too crystal clear for the comfort of fiction. So I took the truth and looked at it slant, as a writer once put so well. Fiction is wonderful for taking all the details of our lives and shaking them up like a Boggle game, rewording them all.
Beware, friends of writers, for what you say--the stories you tell and the landscapes you reveal--are all tucked away, squares for an upcoming quilt. Every feather, every little chicken step. :)
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
CATS
Yesterday Martin and I turned our heads away from our steaming tea cups for a moment and caught this impossible vision: down the hill, a veritable convention of seven black and white cats sat in a perfect circle. In the middle of the circle, another cat lay on his back, one paw extended into the air. He luxuriated on the grass and pointed in the air again in provocative way. Another cat took him up on his challenge and--I can't help it--pussyfooted into the ring and pounced on him. They rolled about and the circle dispersed.
We went back to our tea.
About five minutes later, we looked back down the hill and the cats had reconvened, in exactly the same formation, but this time more centrally in our yard. The same thing happened again; the cat-in-the-middle, the playful tussle, the cats scattering. They played follow-the-leader over to the trunk of the Black Walnut, where they watched one scramble up the bark after a bird. They seemed to be having a wonderful time.
Cats rule Wazoo Farm. As many of you know, I can't get anywhere near cats without swelling like a balloon or scratching my own eyes out. But these cats are different than your average house cat. They're like little gods fallen from heaven; they prowl proudly around the garden; they all have their own paths and patterns, and they seem to be utterly careless of our existence, except when we startle them and they streak off into the sky. We don't know where they live. They are great, heavy, sleek beasts with gleaming coats and certain paws.
I watched one pick his way delicately through a foot of snow last winter, finding the prints of a cat-gone-before and fitting his paws precisely into each indentation.
At night they wail like primordial spirits.
This afternoon Martin and I (yes, we were drinking tea again), craned our necks out the window and saw a cat, black as coal, sitting on the edge of our deck, swishing his tail. He was watching something and I heard him mew. But then I realized his mouth was not opening. I did not think he was a ventriloquist. So I stood up with my tea cup and leaned farther toward the window pane. A huge white cat, its fur standing up and its back arched, was facing down a third cat--I know not what he was in face or manner--I was too consumed by the white cat, who was magnificent.
Martin banged on the window. They did not heed him.
I went to the other window, slid it open and chided them: "No fighting, kitties!" The white cat fixed me with a stare that told me she did not care to be condescended to, but they evaporated into the afternoon.
They will be back. It's a jungle out there. And apparently it's all theirs.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Elspeth lies on the couch next to me, her eyes heavy with sleep and fever. I picked her up early from school today and she's been sacked out the couch ever since. On the way home I knew her sickness couldn't be too desperate since she suggested that the thing that would make her feel better the fastest would be a cheeseburger from McDonalds. But she genuinely has a fever, and though she chowed two bowls of mac 'n cheese and four Tylenols, she's still warm and sleepy. Her feet are nestled behind my back and her hair, swept off her face, is tinged with gold.
Outside it's beautiful and sunny; the bare redbud trees gleam in the late afternoon. Elspeth keeps saying, "You're the nicest mama in the world. There couldn't be a nicer mommy than you. Can I kiss your forehead since I'm sick?"
I've been a parent for over ten years now. The other night Merry looked up at me from her pillow and said: "I'm getting really old. In only eight years I'll be gone at college." What?
Tired of TV, we're listening to some old hymns. . .Oh, Love, that will not let me go. . .This particular rendition, gospel meets soul, is over-the-top silly ("The music, not the words, sound like something that would be on the Cosby Show," Merry commented) but the words themselves, the knowledge that I am held tenaciously by love, fill me with gratitude.
There are many things I love being about a parent, but the quiet moments are often my favorite, when one of the children slows down--and I slow down--to enter these quiet, hallowed moments when time is nothing but a suggestion somewhere else in a busy world, when the very air is charged with tenderness.
Outside it's beautiful and sunny; the bare redbud trees gleam in the late afternoon. Elspeth keeps saying, "You're the nicest mama in the world. There couldn't be a nicer mommy than you. Can I kiss your forehead since I'm sick?"
I've been a parent for over ten years now. The other night Merry looked up at me from her pillow and said: "I'm getting really old. In only eight years I'll be gone at college." What?
Tired of TV, we're listening to some old hymns. . .Oh, Love, that will not let me go. . .This particular rendition, gospel meets soul, is over-the-top silly ("The music, not the words, sound like something that would be on the Cosby Show," Merry commented) but the words themselves, the knowledge that I am held tenaciously by love, fill me with gratitude.
There are many things I love being about a parent, but the quiet moments are often my favorite, when one of the children slows down--and I slow down--to enter these quiet, hallowed moments when time is nothing but a suggestion somewhere else in a busy world, when the very air is charged with tenderness.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
When Merry finished A Wrinkle in Time the other night, I realized I'd need to read it again if I were to discuss it intelligently with her. I remembered parts of the book (in particular, I remember a vague feeling that I should memorize a great deal more than I had in high school if I were to ever battle a giant, disembodied, evil Brain), but the rest was fuzzy.
So last night I stayed up half the night and read Madeline L'Engle's classic again. I was so spooked by IT and its control of Meg's little brother that, at midnight, when I moved my reading upstairs to bed, I couldn't bring myself to drop off my tea cup in a dark, lonely kitchen. I left it on the hall table and dashed up to bed where I finished the book in peace, switched off the light, and marvelled at L'Engle's brilliance.
Reading the book as an adult and as a writer was interesting; I was caught up in the narrative but I was detached enough to think, when the star's song is taken straight from the Psalms, "That was risky. I wouldn't have tried that. . ." and wonder at the sheer intelligence of the writing, how Mrs. Who pulled quotes seemingly out of thin air and how L'Engle mesmerized us with math. . . .and how the book, when studied in little pieces, was not as brilliant as the whole, which shimmers with the qualities of true Myth.
I can't give too much away, because Martin (gasp) has never read it. I'm switching books with him as soon as he finishes rereading "Asher Lev" which I'm sure I must have read in my Potok phase but can't remember. (Did I ever tell you I read Vanity Fair twice, and the second time didn't realize it was a reread until I was almost half-way through?)
If you haven't read L'Engle in a while, I highly recommend a revisit--wonderful stuff for midwinter days. And a reminder, too, of what is real, what is worth pursuing--and fighting for--in life and art.
So last night I stayed up half the night and read Madeline L'Engle's classic again. I was so spooked by IT and its control of Meg's little brother that, at midnight, when I moved my reading upstairs to bed, I couldn't bring myself to drop off my tea cup in a dark, lonely kitchen. I left it on the hall table and dashed up to bed where I finished the book in peace, switched off the light, and marvelled at L'Engle's brilliance.
Reading the book as an adult and as a writer was interesting; I was caught up in the narrative but I was detached enough to think, when the star's song is taken straight from the Psalms, "That was risky. I wouldn't have tried that. . ." and wonder at the sheer intelligence of the writing, how Mrs. Who pulled quotes seemingly out of thin air and how L'Engle mesmerized us with math. . . .and how the book, when studied in little pieces, was not as brilliant as the whole, which shimmers with the qualities of true Myth.
I can't give too much away, because Martin (gasp) has never read it. I'm switching books with him as soon as he finishes rereading "Asher Lev" which I'm sure I must have read in my Potok phase but can't remember. (Did I ever tell you I read Vanity Fair twice, and the second time didn't realize it was a reread until I was almost half-way through?)
If you haven't read L'Engle in a while, I highly recommend a revisit--wonderful stuff for midwinter days. And a reminder, too, of what is real, what is worth pursuing--and fighting for--in life and art.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Our Favorite Family Valentine
It has to be the one my first-grade brother (who had immersed himself in the world of Calvin and Hobbes) sent to his teacher, a short sweet elderly lady named Ms. Miller.
Dear Miss Miller [he scrawled on a paper heart],
I hate you. Drop dead.
Love,
Kenton
At the parent-teacher conference that immediately followed Kenton's missive, white-haired Ms. Miller pulled the valentine out of her desk and said in a bewildered, sad way, "I just don't understand it. He's such a sweet boy."
My parents didn't ban Calvin and Hobbes, but they did have a little discussion with my brother on CONTEXT and how it does or does not contribute to humor. Or to love notes, for that matter.
Dear Miss Miller [he scrawled on a paper heart],
I hate you. Drop dead.
Love,
Kenton
At the parent-teacher conference that immediately followed Kenton's missive, white-haired Ms. Miller pulled the valentine out of her desk and said in a bewildered, sad way, "I just don't understand it. He's such a sweet boy."
My parents didn't ban Calvin and Hobbes, but they did have a little discussion with my brother on CONTEXT and how it does or does not contribute to humor. Or to love notes, for that matter.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Cinderella and the Pulitzer Prize
At this moment, a Pulitzer-winning poet is stacking some papers on a podium. She's clearing her throat and thanking the person who introduced her. Maybe she's smiling or maybe she's bowing her head for a moment before beginning to read. Whatever she's doing, I'm not there.
Unexpectedly, at the end of today, which has been marked by kids (like all my days are), and significantly, has been full of joy and contentment, I am now feeling a bit like Cinderella left behind at the ball. Martin rushed out the door, cup of tea in hand, to walk to the event, and I finished the dishes and sat down in the disheveled dining room (which I've cleaned up already twice today). As I sank lower in the morass of my own personal misery, I heard my mother's voice telling me to stop being such a baby and empower myself. I could have arranged to go tonight. I don't need to wait for a fairy godmother. I could have hired a babysitter.
But then I argued back: in an age when women are supposed to be empowered, why is it that we have to remind ourselves to BE empowered, when, for many men, that is already assumed? I thought about telling Cinderella: These people don't own you. Shake free of this learned helplessness. Get a microloan. Go out and start your own business, one chicken at a time.
And I told myself: Come on. Nobody's oppressing you. Think ahead and find a babysitter next time. At home instead of at the poetry reading? You have nobody to blame but yourself.
And I told myself (and this is related, believe it or not): Be more disciplined and write your book.
To add a humorous note to my frustration (by making me see myself in a more realistic light) Merry just got frustrated over a bookmark that she decorated (to enter in a contest) that she decorated with the motto: Fly Away With Your Imagination and READ!. She started listing genres on the bookmark: Fantasy, Mystery. . .She wants to add: Realistic Fiction, Fiction, Etc., and draw pictures.
"I just don't think there's enough room on the bookmark." I was pointing out the obvious, a fact that already had her worked up.
"But the judges will think I just picked two random genres," she argued passionately. "They want something more than this. These days. . ." She trailed off as if the world is a hard nut to crack. Then she got that Merry look that warns me she is overwhelmed and about to cry. "I just don't want to talk about this anymore," she said, and filed the bookmark back in her folder.
Already in fourth grade and she's feeling the same roadblocks as I do now. And I have to wonder, how many are from the world, and how many are from our own expectations of what we as women should be accomplishing, even though we accomplish an awful lot?
Just today I had to tell myself to relax and enjoy life. There's nothing you absolutely have to do today, I reminded myself. . .And in the end, I did enough today (not least of all, I drank endless cups of tea to try to cure my stubborn sinus cold), and I wrote my column for the week. . .but even now I'm chastising myself for not writing thirty minutes on my latest project and not planning ahead for the Pulitzer poet. Finally, I can add to my list: Figure a way out for Cinderella. Come up with an economic plan and the right words to make her stand up and leave the fireplace. I can't just leave her waiting around for her fairy godmother. And surely she has better places to go than to a ball.
Unexpectedly, at the end of today, which has been marked by kids (like all my days are), and significantly, has been full of joy and contentment, I am now feeling a bit like Cinderella left behind at the ball. Martin rushed out the door, cup of tea in hand, to walk to the event, and I finished the dishes and sat down in the disheveled dining room (which I've cleaned up already twice today). As I sank lower in the morass of my own personal misery, I heard my mother's voice telling me to stop being such a baby and empower myself. I could have arranged to go tonight. I don't need to wait for a fairy godmother. I could have hired a babysitter.
But then I argued back: in an age when women are supposed to be empowered, why is it that we have to remind ourselves to BE empowered, when, for many men, that is already assumed? I thought about telling Cinderella: These people don't own you. Shake free of this learned helplessness. Get a microloan. Go out and start your own business, one chicken at a time.
And I told myself: Come on. Nobody's oppressing you. Think ahead and find a babysitter next time. At home instead of at the poetry reading? You have nobody to blame but yourself.
And I told myself (and this is related, believe it or not): Be more disciplined and write your book.
To add a humorous note to my frustration (by making me see myself in a more realistic light) Merry just got frustrated over a bookmark that she decorated (to enter in a contest) that she decorated with the motto: Fly Away With Your Imagination and READ!. She started listing genres on the bookmark: Fantasy, Mystery. . .She wants to add: Realistic Fiction, Fiction, Etc., and draw pictures.
"I just don't think there's enough room on the bookmark." I was pointing out the obvious, a fact that already had her worked up.
"But the judges will think I just picked two random genres," she argued passionately. "They want something more than this. These days. . ." She trailed off as if the world is a hard nut to crack. Then she got that Merry look that warns me she is overwhelmed and about to cry. "I just don't want to talk about this anymore," she said, and filed the bookmark back in her folder.
Already in fourth grade and she's feeling the same roadblocks as I do now. And I have to wonder, how many are from the world, and how many are from our own expectations of what we as women should be accomplishing, even though we accomplish an awful lot?
Just today I had to tell myself to relax and enjoy life. There's nothing you absolutely have to do today, I reminded myself. . .And in the end, I did enough today (not least of all, I drank endless cups of tea to try to cure my stubborn sinus cold), and I wrote my column for the week. . .but even now I'm chastising myself for not writing thirty minutes on my latest project and not planning ahead for the Pulitzer poet. Finally, I can add to my list: Figure a way out for Cinderella. Come up with an economic plan and the right words to make her stand up and leave the fireplace. I can't just leave her waiting around for her fairy godmother. And surely she has better places to go than to a ball.
Off to Red Barn Farm
We spent last Sunday at Red Barn Farm, a self-sustaining dream come true. Jeannie Williams, a burnt-out preschool teacher, was inspired by Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable. . ." and went to work with an astounding energy. I wanted to glean a couple of articles so I carried around my tape recorder all morning,
in the chicken coop and goat pens, 
up muddy hills, and in the warmth of a hoop house lined with spinach, bak choy, and other gorgeous winter crops. 
Look at those nannies, so protective of their kids; they could hear them from across the barn and would charge off looking for one, nosing it back safely among the other babies.
Here's Elspeth standing in front of a cunning structure built by a local artisan, all by hand with stone, into a hillside. It looks like a hobbit should live there but it's actually a cellar where Jeannie Williams stores her jams.
To read the sweet, syrupy story of our trip to Red Barn Farm (which is mostly about Llew Williams' maple tapping operation), click here.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Surprise Party
On Friday I was sick, sunk down in the squishy, hollowy depths of a cold along with Bea. She and I slept on either end of the couch for much of the morning and Martin took off work to he could bring us tea.
Midway through the day, the telephone rang. Our robotic, rather awful automated caller ID voice announced the caller: Mrs. P. I couldn't imagine why the grandma of Elspeth's friend, K, should be calling me on a Friday afternoon, but I accepted the phone from Martin.
"Hello?" I said brightly. We exchanged pleasantries and then Mrs. P said,
"I have two questions. One, what should we bring for Elspeth's Valentine's Party, and two, what time is it?"
-------------------------------------
(This dash shows what happened in my mind in the next split second.)
"Oh, you don't have to bring anything," I gushed. --------------- "And, just out of curiosity--what day did Elspeth say her Valentine's party was?"
"Saturday."
[laughter] "Of course. Well, it's 11. . .to 12:30. it'll just be a small party. K and Elspeth. We'll have a tea party. . ."
And so we did. We had a lovely tea party this morning with K and another of Elspeth's sweet friends, and Elspeth went shopping with Martin, purchased the tiffin treats, and then set it all up on a lace tablecloth. They drank from the tiny Dutch tea cups I used to as a child, and drank lemon tea out of the chipped blue teapot I used to drink Koolaid out of every Sunday at High Tea. It was very civilized. I thought, well, if Elspeth planned the party and invited her own guests without my knowledge, she can jolly well pull it off on her own.
I helped a little, and I helped happily, though Elspeth is under strict instructions not to set up dates, especially parties, without first travelling through the appropriate channels.
Midway through the day, the telephone rang. Our robotic, rather awful automated caller ID voice announced the caller: Mrs. P. I couldn't imagine why the grandma of Elspeth's friend, K, should be calling me on a Friday afternoon, but I accepted the phone from Martin.
"Hello?" I said brightly. We exchanged pleasantries and then Mrs. P said,
"I have two questions. One, what should we bring for Elspeth's Valentine's Party, and two, what time is it?"
-------------------------------------
(This dash shows what happened in my mind in the next split second.)
"Oh, you don't have to bring anything," I gushed. --------------- "And, just out of curiosity--what day did Elspeth say her Valentine's party was?"
"Saturday."
[laughter] "Of course. Well, it's 11. . .to 12:30. it'll just be a small party. K and Elspeth. We'll have a tea party. . ."
And so we did. We had a lovely tea party this morning with K and another of Elspeth's sweet friends, and Elspeth went shopping with Martin, purchased the tiffin treats, and then set it all up on a lace tablecloth. They drank from the tiny Dutch tea cups I used to as a child, and drank lemon tea out of the chipped blue teapot I used to drink Koolaid out of every Sunday at High Tea. It was very civilized. I thought, well, if Elspeth planned the party and invited her own guests without my knowledge, she can jolly well pull it off on her own.
I helped a little, and I helped happily, though Elspeth is under strict instructions not to set up dates, especially parties, without first travelling through the appropriate channels.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
My fingers are stiff from a walk (I carried tired Bea the whole time) though it's so blue and sunshiny you forget how cold it is. I came home, put on the teapot, and watered plants. I found a nice gift waiting for me at the end of a brown peach tree cutting I'd whisked inside after pruning some weeks ago. It wasn't a blossom--those have already appeared--but a slender green leaf, tightly rolled and just beginning to unfurl. I remember my first year of college, when the Women's Chorale left Chicago and headed south on tour. The flowering trees were lovely but it was the leaves that filled me with joy--I remember wanting to eat them by the handful.
So maybe the leaf wasn't waiting for me at all--leaves and stones and sunsets don't, really--but maybe, without knowing in, in my weariness this afternoon, I was waiting for the leaf. And I found it.
I will cap this pleasure with a hot cup of tea and move from there to wine, and then my happiness may very well be complete.
So maybe the leaf wasn't waiting for me at all--leaves and stones and sunsets don't, really--but maybe, without knowing in, in my weariness this afternoon, I was waiting for the leaf. And I found it.
I will cap this pleasure with a hot cup of tea and move from there to wine, and then my happiness may very well be complete.
Bea is listening to the soundtrack of "Cars" once again, for the fortieth time this week. You think I'm joking. All I want to say to you people is: I hear life is a highway. Though the option has not appealed to me since college, I'm beginning to want to drive it all night long. Yeah!
Last night I cut my own hair. My regular hairdresser is out of town for a while and I couldn't stand my shagginess anymore. So I stood in front of the mirror and snipped away. Things turned out pretty well, considering the piles of hair that began accumulating all over the house; I'd see myself in the mirror and realized I'd missed a bit. Martin tidied up the back since I had no way of knowing how it might look. The last time Martin cut my hair, right after Merry was born, he concluded my 'do by shaving a wedge into the back of my 'bob' which later morphed into such a short hair cut at the hairdressers ("Just trying to get it even, she said, as she brought out the buzzy clipper things) that a nice old lady at the grocery store called me "sir" until I turned around. Poor lady--she seemed awfully thrown and sorry for her mistake. At this point my distressed mother took me in hand and made me promise I'd never go so short again.
Don't worry, Mom, my hair is still right around my shoulders. My days of crazy driving--impulsive flattening of the accelerator--are gone, and no matter what my brainwashed mind is telling me, I still don't want to drive all night long. A little quiet drive in the hills, maybe, or better yet, a brisk walk around the block.
Bea just sauntered in with my mother's ridiculously bright-rimmed reading glasses. There's no telling where that girl is headed.
Oh, it's back again--Bea has learned the buttons on the stereo. Hey, if you're going my way, I wanna drive it all night long. I'm beginning to see, too, that there was a distance between you and I. . .
Last night I cut my own hair. My regular hairdresser is out of town for a while and I couldn't stand my shagginess anymore. So I stood in front of the mirror and snipped away. Things turned out pretty well, considering the piles of hair that began accumulating all over the house; I'd see myself in the mirror and realized I'd missed a bit. Martin tidied up the back since I had no way of knowing how it might look. The last time Martin cut my hair, right after Merry was born, he concluded my 'do by shaving a wedge into the back of my 'bob' which later morphed into such a short hair cut at the hairdressers ("Just trying to get it even, she said, as she brought out the buzzy clipper things) that a nice old lady at the grocery store called me "sir" until I turned around. Poor lady--she seemed awfully thrown and sorry for her mistake. At this point my distressed mother took me in hand and made me promise I'd never go so short again.
Don't worry, Mom, my hair is still right around my shoulders. My days of crazy driving--impulsive flattening of the accelerator--are gone, and no matter what my brainwashed mind is telling me, I still don't want to drive all night long. A little quiet drive in the hills, maybe, or better yet, a brisk walk around the block.
Bea just sauntered in with my mother's ridiculously bright-rimmed reading glasses. There's no telling where that girl is headed.
Oh, it's back again--Bea has learned the buttons on the stereo. Hey, if you're going my way, I wanna drive it all night long. I'm beginning to see, too, that there was a distance between you and I. . .
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Bea, blithely to her friend Ethan today, in response to his fear of the Abominable Snowman:
"Snowmonster? I like him. It's no problem."
(Of course she pronounced it, 'ploblem.' And she waved her hand as if she and snowmonsters are well acquainted and on tea-drinking terms). Then they embarked on a serious discussion about dinosaures being 'stinct.
*
Tonight she sat on my lap and said, "You know a boy in my class said a funny thing. He said, "When I grow up, I'm going to become a little boy." Isn't that funny?" And she laughed and laughed.
It seemed really funny at the time.
"Snowmonster? I like him. It's no problem."
(Of course she pronounced it, 'ploblem.' And she waved her hand as if she and snowmonsters are well acquainted and on tea-drinking terms). Then they embarked on a serious discussion about dinosaures being 'stinct.
*
Tonight she sat on my lap and said, "You know a boy in my class said a funny thing. He said, "When I grow up, I'm going to become a little boy." Isn't that funny?" And she laughed and laughed.
It seemed really funny at the time.
Monday, February 6, 2012
I'm watching Merry and Catherine do the Electric Slide in front of me, struggling a bit to follow a couple of dancers on the TV. Merry is tallest now, long and lean in a green dress and leggings. Catherine's flaxen hair falls halfway down her back and they both seem so grown up.
The two oldest girls cooked dinner tonight--tuna noodle casserole that we all ate up and toasted energetically. Merry's on a cooking streak--she baked two batches of delicious cupcakes over the weekend almost entirely by herself (she's still a bit timid about sliding hot pans out of the oven, which I sympathize with). This is energy I want to encourage as much as possible. Hopefully before too many years I'll be able to write her into the dinner-making schedule.
Beatrix just flipped her rocking chair over, rolled free and said, "I'm okay." When we first arrived in this town, Merry and Catherine were her age, stumping off to preschool together in the mornings, and now they look for all the world like young women.
I was told this would happen. But it happened fast.
The two oldest girls cooked dinner tonight--tuna noodle casserole that we all ate up and toasted energetically. Merry's on a cooking streak--she baked two batches of delicious cupcakes over the weekend almost entirely by herself (she's still a bit timid about sliding hot pans out of the oven, which I sympathize with). This is energy I want to encourage as much as possible. Hopefully before too many years I'll be able to write her into the dinner-making schedule.
Beatrix just flipped her rocking chair over, rolled free and said, "I'm okay." When we first arrived in this town, Merry and Catherine were her age, stumping off to preschool together in the mornings, and now they look for all the world like young women.
I was told this would happen. But it happened fast.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Snowing
The girls and I spent a good hour in the library after lunch today; I felt happily surprised and liberated by the fact that my library card was clean and clear (I'd believed I had lost a book) and found a nice stack of picture books to see us through the week.
When we pulled into our driveway, I saw an enchanting site: Martin, covered in snow, clothed in red stocking hat, standing with pruners in our garden, clearing and staking trees. We piled out of the car, tipped our heads back, and stuck out our tongues; the snowflakes are so heavy today, when the temperature wavers just above freezing, that you can gaze at a snowflake some thirty feet above you and watch its slow and meandering descent down to your open mouth. Quite a few hit me in the eyes and finally I was so soggy and cold I came inside and put on the teapot.
But the two older girls still stand outside, their tongues out, busy being "Snowpeople" who are "Snowing," which causes much hilarity between them. . ."Just caught a pike!" one says, and the other: "I got a huge trout just then!"
Advantages: you don't need bait; you can stand in your boat; there are so many fish and no hooks are necessary.
When we pulled into our driveway, I saw an enchanting site: Martin, covered in snow, clothed in red stocking hat, standing with pruners in our garden, clearing and staking trees. We piled out of the car, tipped our heads back, and stuck out our tongues; the snowflakes are so heavy today, when the temperature wavers just above freezing, that you can gaze at a snowflake some thirty feet above you and watch its slow and meandering descent down to your open mouth. Quite a few hit me in the eyes and finally I was so soggy and cold I came inside and put on the teapot.
But the two older girls still stand outside, their tongues out, busy being "Snowpeople" who are "Snowing," which causes much hilarity between them. . ."Just caught a pike!" one says, and the other: "I got a huge trout just then!"
Advantages: you don't need bait; you can stand in your boat; there are so many fish and no hooks are necessary.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Tall Order
Last night, as Martin slept, he dreamt that he was a waiter in a diner. His sole customer, a woman and a novelist he had never seen before, slightly older than he, demanded pancakes. When he brought her the plate she snapped, "I wanted burned pancakes."
"They are burned," he said, lifting one to check.
"I wanted them burned on both sides," she said, and waved him away.
Poor Martin took the plate back to the kitchen and explained the order to the cook, who grumpily threw them back on the skillet and began burning the other side.
"I want eggs, too!" Martin turned around and found that the woman novelist had followed him into the kitchen. She fixed him with her beady eye and specified: "A cooked egg within an egg."
This morning we were eating a much less complicated breakfast--Cheerios and muesli--when Martin recounted his dream. I, chief dream interpreter and magician of the Cockroft household, spun this explanation: the woman, who is unrecognizable except as a figment of Martin's imagination, is Martin's creative spirit, or Muse. She's a pushy spirit, asking Martin for things he must go to great lengths to provide, even the impossible and enigmatic Egg Within an Egg.
He performs drudge work and even still he is unable to please his Muse, whom he both wants to please and feels bitter toward.
Why? Because these days, we have no time or energy for creative writing. None. Neither of us have written a poem or story in months. We've been writing of course--Martin sketches syllabi and lesson plans and I've been writing for the paper, and both are important and rewarding in their own right. But we both feel utterly divorced from our creative writing, and the muses are getting grumpy.
Martin felt this when he arrived home yesterday evening and groaned, "I'm so tired. I feel absolutely drained." On closer inspection of his day, we realized he hadn't eaten breakfast nor lunch--an involuntary fast due to a hectic, packed day.
And here I am now, typing away when I should be working on a story for a magazine or at least catching up with our Everests of laundry. But I need to toss my hungry Muse a little scrap now and then to keep her from devouring me. . .though I don't know whether I'll ever be able to fulfill Martin's tall order. That's up to him and his spirit to settle.
"They are burned," he said, lifting one to check.
"I wanted them burned on both sides," she said, and waved him away.
Poor Martin took the plate back to the kitchen and explained the order to the cook, who grumpily threw them back on the skillet and began burning the other side.
"I want eggs, too!" Martin turned around and found that the woman novelist had followed him into the kitchen. She fixed him with her beady eye and specified: "A cooked egg within an egg."
This morning we were eating a much less complicated breakfast--Cheerios and muesli--when Martin recounted his dream. I, chief dream interpreter and magician of the Cockroft household, spun this explanation: the woman, who is unrecognizable except as a figment of Martin's imagination, is Martin's creative spirit, or Muse. She's a pushy spirit, asking Martin for things he must go to great lengths to provide, even the impossible and enigmatic Egg Within an Egg.
He performs drudge work and even still he is unable to please his Muse, whom he both wants to please and feels bitter toward.
Why? Because these days, we have no time or energy for creative writing. None. Neither of us have written a poem or story in months. We've been writing of course--Martin sketches syllabi and lesson plans and I've been writing for the paper, and both are important and rewarding in their own right. But we both feel utterly divorced from our creative writing, and the muses are getting grumpy.
Martin felt this when he arrived home yesterday evening and groaned, "I'm so tired. I feel absolutely drained." On closer inspection of his day, we realized he hadn't eaten breakfast nor lunch--an involuntary fast due to a hectic, packed day.
And here I am now, typing away when I should be working on a story for a magazine or at least catching up with our Everests of laundry. But I need to toss my hungry Muse a little scrap now and then to keep her from devouring me. . .though I don't know whether I'll ever be able to fulfill Martin's tall order. That's up to him and his spirit to settle.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
I just found out that I know one of Boston's "Singular Sensations," a guy Merry used to call, in her tiny lisp, "Uncle Kurt." To those of you who know the man, I'm sure you'll agree he's pretty special. To see him, click the link above and scroll down until you get to the most dashing person, and it will be Kurt.
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