One More Random Picture, Last One

I have to switch gears after feeling besmattered and besmirtched by that message on the dump truck. So here is a dragon for you. I don't know why. But it's not a dump truck.

Another Random Picture

So we were stuck behind this truck for miles, crawling up a hill. We had ample time to study the message: SHOW ME YOUR PUPPIES. However, we were unable, in the end, to come up with any conclusions.

My first thoughts, after the initial surprise and ensuing muddle, was of Cruella de Ville and her cry for a spotted coat; but now I have this sneaking feeling that the intent was a bit more smarmy. If this is the case, though, why is the command written in in such goofy, cartoonish print?

Finally, after a year, a woman at preschool pickup concluded one of my more puzzling wonders--her bumper sticker that read: LOUD PIPES SAVE LIVES. Well, my goodness, if I wasn't snookered for a while. Yesterday, on the lawn of the Catholic Church, she and her perfect tan paused to explain. It turns out she and her husband rode Harleys once upon a time, and the louder the pipes on such a vehicle, the better you're heard. Theoretically, anyway. She said it actually made little difference and presumably they almost got killed anyway. The other bumper sticker on her SUV--the one about rounding 2nd base--I understood without prompting, though she generously offered a hint about that one, something to do with going back to high school. No problem. I got the bases down. See those three girls of mine? I understand.

Come on, guys. Illuminate me. SHOW ME YOUR INSIGHTS. Solve one of the more pressing mysteries of my life. Let me sleep at night once more.

Random Picture, Random News

This picture made me grin when I stumbled across it today. Martin, face cloaked in chops, standing on the corner of Winslow, Arizona. From that song comes one of my favorite pieces of advice of all time: DON'T LET THE SOUND OF YOUR OWN WHEELS DRIVE YOU CRAZY.

So should I be concerned about the crashing, breaking sounds echoing up the stairs from the kitchen were Elspeth is currently skipping her nap? Is that the sound of my own wheels, or the sound of someone else's wheels that should not drive me crazy? For the record, I'd love to be standing, right now, on the corner of Winslow, Arizona. Or maybe be the fine girl in the Ford.

Speaking of which,

Wrinkles. Elspeth pointed to a particularly deep furrow in my brow and asked, "How do you do that, Mommy?"

Oh, here's Merry with a message:

Did you know that Elspeth and Ben have pulled out noodles, beans, honey. . . .

Is it a mess?

In the sunroom, not too bad, but the kitchen is a TOTAL DISASTER.

Take it easy. . .take it easy. . .

Hello, darlings all.
A little news to share: this girl's in the paper! I ALWAYS follow my mother's advice--you should, too, if you've got a rockin' jolly mama like I do--and asked the local paper if I could write a column for them. So now I'm a Sunday columnist! Yahoo! Follow a link here if you're interested--and please don't make fun of my picture. The smile is a little forced, but I'm not used to head shots, even with the extremely talented photo-taker (my friend Sal). Okay, make fun of the picture. Go for it.

J-E-L-L-O, etc.

I'm not a big jello person. But when my mother was here, the girls grabbed a box off of the grocery shelf with such hope that I didn't say no. Later, after we mixed the bright green powder into boiling water, I even talked over my mother's explanation of gelatin to save them from the Big Jello Truth, the one that has stopped me from putting the jiggly stuff in my mouth for years. MADE OUT OF CRUSHED ANIMAL BONES. That did it for me, my friends. All those 1950's jello molds, all the old dusty cookbooks with gorgeous fruit-marshmallow-jello creations in the shape of bunnies and buildings--none of these have a place in my house. But jello makes innocent kids happy, and I'm all for encouraging a little bliss now and then.

So. . .this is what I emptied into the sink tonight: a mass of smashed emerald-colored jello mixed with smushed tomatoes and raspberries--the delicious concoction of Elspeth dearest who smuggled a jello cup upstairs where she began mixing a little of this and a little of that on her dresser, dumping a bit into a fabric block mixed with other non-food objects, like a bead necklace. At bedtime I also found a fork, a patty-pan of supersweet cherry tomatoes harvested from the garden, and a small collection of rocks. Did I mention that I spent a precious bit of my weekend cleaning the girls' room, a job that brings astonishment and disgust even to this most experienced and hardened parent?

Also, Bea had procured a pen and scribbled on a wall, a two-year old's masterpiece that may have looked like something to her but appears chaotic, blue, scribbly, to the rest of us. This futile attempt at tidying a room ends in the sort of frustration that brings me to emote thusly against my better judgement:

IF YOU GIRLS DON'T START PICKING UP I'M GOING TO THROW ALL THIS STUFF AWAY!
IF YOU WANT TO LIVE LIKE ANIMALS (insert empty threat here).
MOMMY HAS BETTER THINGS TO DO WITH HER TIME THAN CLEAN UP PIG-STIES!
ETC. (CREATE YOUR OWN THREAT HERE--IT'S FUN AND PRODUCTIVE).

Truth is, part of my frustration comes from deep within--a suspicion that, this very afternoon, life has become slippery and out of control. This is due to our lawn, which is totally and completely disgraceful, choked with ragweed; our front steps, which seem to be crumbling; a list of unfinished tasks that I don't want to face. Instead I stretch myself out beside Elspeth at naptime. This little devil of mine presses her mouth to my cheek and says: "Mommy, I fell in love with you. I'm never going to leave you." And I stroke her back as she falls asleep, watch her breath become deep and even, and I think, She'll never remember this moment when she promised me she'd never leave. She'll leave, and she'll be happy, and I'll miss her.

And it's all right. All the rest of it--the jello, the silly things that clutter my life and make me lose my temper--those things are peripheral to this core of precious, simple love, these few moments afforded to me by a generous and gracious hand, this love that blinds me, hews me in two, fills me with such gratitude.

Quick note: Here's a shameless bit of self promotion: I'm such a goober (that's not the shameless part--here it comes:) I just found out that if you go to Cold Mountain Review's website (there's a shameless link on the bottom right hand under "Scribblings") and click on my name, you can see my entire essay there! Woohoo! It took me quite a while to figure this out. Goober. Me. That sounds like a mild oath: "Goober me, boys, I've got the treasure!" By jove, mates all, I figured out the link!

Happinesses

I've nothing in particular to share with you good people tonight. Perhaps I could take the wisps of pink that hung low in the sky, roll them up like ribbons, and present them to you--you could trim your hat with sunset tomorrow, tie up some late zinnias, wrap it around your wrist--your pulse would pump under this evening's prenight colors.

My mother is off on a pwane as Bea says. What a good mother she is, and not only because she helps me in a myriad of ways. She is an avid reader, a brilliant conversationalist, a word-smith extraordinaire, and she tends to give as a way of life. She's always got her fork and knife poised to devour a new idea or our new stories or poems. And Martin articulated something about her that I hadn't really put my finger on yet: One great thing about your mother, he said, Is she really believes in love between spouses, and she does everything in her power to celebrate that. He pointed to my mother's parents, who lost love early in their marriage, and then to my mother and father's marriage, which has been marked by dynamic, nurturing, and at times, giddy love.

My mother is a big fan of Martin, and though I already tend to think he's the cat's meow, she makes sure I know he's no puny meow but a big roar of a man. I've always known she's a big fan of mine, and she is an advocate for continuing da love between Martin and me--she pushes us out the door for walks, presses a check into my hand and sends us out to dinner. She's a good sort, my mother. I'm a big fan of hers--can you tell? And continuing to admire your parents after thirty-something years is no small thing.

For some reason, I just remembered a senior writing class in college where a classmate of mine critiqued my essay on the basis of the speaker coming across as too happy (the speaker was me). That has been my problem for years now--I'm too dark on one end of the market and too happy for the other end (I just got three short pieces of fiction accepted at Prick of the Spindle so I must have struck the right balance for them, anyway). And I try to continue as a fairly happy person--much of this is due to my good, good life and much is due to my eternally optimistic personality--but I've also been learning to seize the happinesses that pass by me, enjoy them with as much relish as I can muster, and then--ideally--understand that my hands must stay open for them to pass. Bea on my bed tonight as we read books: a great happiness almost too lovely to bear--she's growing so quickly and someday she will be happiness for other people, not just her dear family.

I'm teetering on the dangerous edge of melancholy so I'll end by cataloguing these few but enormous joys: my mother, father, siblings, children, husband. A feather duvet, summer's last tomatoes, autumn in the air. The first apple of September; dear, dear friends, belly laughs. The creak of my front door, the sound of footsteps. What are your glorious happinesses tonight?

Did You See That Dog?

Martin's night class every Tuesday means Girl's Night at Wazoo Farm--we eat early, pack on the candy, and watch TV. Okay, so it's a bit of a cliche--maybe we four females should be playing Scrabble or conjugating French verbs or writing proposals for energy conservation. Instead we eat gobstoppers and watch claymation. Life is full of compromise. Girl's Night with candy today, Nobel Prize tomorrow.

Tonight we had an extra girl--my dear mama, who's been letting me write in the morning and goof off with Martin, picking grapes and taking walks JUST THE TWO OF US(we also gallivanted off to eat sushi, our favorite thing to do without the kids).

Tonight the four of us women walked downtown and ordered barbecue sandwiches. Get this, the barbecue restaurant has switched locations and thus upgraded from a roll of papertowels to cloth napkins; from a concrete floor to carpet; bright turquoise walls (cracking) to dark maroon and ornamental wallpaper. BAD changes for a family like mine, whose eating experience includes mac-n-cheese all over the floor, children batting each other with fries, and everybody squirting their own ketchup. The new stuffy digs made me a little nervous, even though the pulled pork was as good as ever. Elspeth wanted to snuggle my left arm as I ate and Bea kept grabbing a full cup of soda and leaning over the edge of her highchair so it seemed she'd fall out, face-first, into the small meadow of noodles she'd dropped all over the floor. Sigh. A trough would be easier.

After barbecue we fastened the kids in the car and sought a little unwinding time in the winding roads of our county. We enjoyed the hills, golden with late sunlight, an old stone house up the hill from an ancient red barn, a one-room schoolhouse on a corner under spreading trees. We enjoyed the children who were plugged in and could not do much more than hit each other, make up, pinch each other, make up--and etc. On the way home, almost to town, I spied three boys above the road on a ridge, standing under a lovely tree, bellies pressed to a white picket fence. As we drove by, I saw a chunky kid in a red T-shirt pull his hand back and hurl something at our car, his mouth open in rapt anticipation.

Two driveways down, I swung the Subaru into an empty parking lot and headed back for the red T-shirt kid. I felt the sort of righteous excitement that adults who usually do not believe they are really adults feel, mixed with the same giddy anticipation the kid might have felt when he chucked the projectile at our car. I was going to put the fear of God in this kid, I thought as our tires crunched over the gravel of the driveway.

I had to hand it to them. As I swung open my door and looked over the top of the car, they just stood there looking at me. I would have fled, ashamed and shaking, and dove under my bed. I would have been petrified if an adult came zooming back in their car to give me what-for.

"Were you all throwing things at my car?"

They shrugged a little but not in a sneaky way. Then two of them pointed at the kid with the short hair and the red T.

"He did it."

"You threw something at my car."

No attempt to deny the undeniable. As I began to explain the dangers of throwing things at cars, the kid talked over the top of me with happy enthusiasm.

"See that dog up there?" he said, pointing up the driveway. "It's a pure-bred Husky."

"I do see that dog up there." I felt I must not be pressing my point. "No throwing things at cars, okay?"

"He's a pure-bred Husky. You see that dog? He's white and he's got blue eyes--"

Now a group of adults had stirred out of the garage by the pure-bred Husky with blue eyes.

"They were throwing things at the car!" I yelled up the driveway. In a lower voice, I reassured the kid again. "Yes, I DO see the dog up there." The man in a white T-shirt strode down toward us.

"Which one?" he asked.

I pointed the red T-shirt kid out. Then I sized up the man and began to soft-pedal. "It's okay, though. Just wanted to make sure they were being safe."

I did not want to be responsible for a kid getting whaled on by an embarrassed dad. Dad said, "Up to the house, boy." Then he said, "We don't live here--we were just helping out some friends. He was throwing apples at cars a couple of days ago."

Mom and I both tried to smooth things over as much as possible. Oddly, I felt moved by the kid's lack of repentance--maybe I had overreacted to a regular kid-thing. Hadn't I, as a kid, spread cattail fluff in the highway and watched semis create snowflurries? Or maybe I gave into this funny suspicion, that it couldn't be ME making a fuss as I am still not quite an adult(I think I am, really, but I don't feel it). Or maybe this kid suckered us all. As I backed the Subaru out of the driveway, the adults up by the Husky waved to us in such a friendly way you might have thought we'd all just shared an apple pie and a pot of coffee.

What a dog. Did you see that dog? It's pure-bred Husky with blue eyes. You don't see that kind of dog every day.

Hippy Hoppy

This woman is still spry as a spring-chicken. (So that's where Martin gets his sense of shake-it!)

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

Happy Birthday, Grandma in Texas! It would have been nice if we could have convinced Beatrix to sing Come On, Sweet Pea properly, but by the time we turned on our camera she had dissolved into sillier attention-getting tactics. So here are the bits in honor of your birthday!

Weather Shifts

I believe the seasons are changing right now outside my window. At this instant storm clouds blow low across the the tops of the green hills; wind gusts through the ornamental plum. The cosmos are dipping their bright orange heads to black seed. The children, besweatered, pick the last of the raspberries.

We'll still have some weeks of fine tomatoes if the weather doesn't fall too low. Otherwise, as confirmed by our neighbors--the mother and daughter who live with a little white dog down the old brick road--we'll be slicing them in a pan and frying up some crispy green tomatoes. Martin intended to plant a whole crop of greens and sugarsnap peas, but he's back in his teaching mode and we'll be lucky if he mows the grass before I do.

I adore sweater weather, especially after the oppressive 90+ days we've endured so much of lately. Yesterday this time the temperature was climbing with a blazing sun in a clear sky but even last night when Mom and I walked to the ridge overlooking town, the weather was changing. The clouds were unbelievable: Renaissance clouds, Mom called them--great scoops of white cream, mounded thick and high, a thousand edges outlined in silver. When we tipped our heads back, loose buttercup-colored fluff trailed away, white wisps across blue.

I haven't seen clouds like this in many years. My mother reflected that my Nana, a painter, would have been beside herself with excitement at such a spectacle. Were I still a child, I would have pictured my Nana up in heaven with God, shaping those clouds with her hands and a sculptor's knife, tipping bottles of glitter and highlighting each golden curve with her fingertips. Looking down on us on that ridge in Pennsylvania, she would have blown them down over our heads, smiling at our open-mouthed wonder.

My Teacher's Pretty

News of Merry's first week at school:

My teacher's SO pretty.
My teacher lets us *chew gum*!
Not much more than that. But really, who could need or ask for more?
I folded to the pressure--Merry's bad memories of 'kids making fun of her plain backpack--and the night before school started, with a very bad attitude because--A. I hate crafting and B. I hate ironing--I affixed the butterfly transfers and pinned on the beads. No silly kids are gonna make fun of MY girl's backpack! (This parent also has her priorities straight.)

Help!

Elspeth and I are in dire need of help. We cracked open Cars and Trucks and Things That Go tonight and began our happy pursuit of Goldbug. This book is a staple from my childhood and I never cease to find delight in the corn, pickle, mustard, and other various foodstuff-inspired vehicles on each page.

Do you own this book? If not, go out and buy it immediately.

If you do own this book, please, please, drop everything you are doing RIGHT NOW. Find your copy and turn to pages 44-45. The pig family is picking out corn from Aunty Pastry's farm stand (Pa is taking a taste--he is such a, yes, you guessed it). Do you see Mistress Mouse winning the race? And Joe's long purple bigshot car? Joe looks as if he is about to choke on his cigar.

I have studied these pages for a short eternity and I cannot find Goldbug anywhere. Neither can Elspeth--and I am beginning to think my old hero R. Scarry forgot to slip him in. This can't be true! I would have remembered it as one of the greatest disappointments of my childhood!

Please. Please. Help us. WHERE IS GOLDBUG???

I'm not even sure I'll be able to sleep tonight.

Hoovie's Dead

Good ole Hoovie died today. He's been with us almost twelve years and seen us through six moves, four of them major cross-country affairs that tested his stamina. He's battled rocks, a megajar of chocolate sprinkles, hair chopped legitimately and sneakily from child heads, filthy basements, porches, and garages. He's been a dear friend to me, one that I never parted with except once, when a friend in need begged for him. Even then, I knew the friend wasn't worthy of Hoovie--it turns out, in the end, he wasn't--but despite possible abandonment issues, Hoovie stayed faithful and true, battered, blue, old and always ready to clean up a big mess. He never electrocuted me or the children; since his arrival at our wedding so long ago, ushered in by my own dear Granddad, he's done the job with a stiff upper lip and a companionable hum.

Yesterday I noticed Hoovie wasn't doing too well; as he helped me clean the fan tines and under beds, his hum broke into a deafening roar. But he kept going and so did I. Despite his age, I thought he could do anything, even though he'd let loose a puff of dust and began to complain so loudly my ears began to hurt. I almost said something but I thought I might be imagining things--after all, Hoovie's had a little trouble but never anything serious.

He had a good rest overnight in the front hallway, poised to conquer the main floor this morning before church. As the girls finished their cereal, I plugged in Hoovie, turned him on and
BANG!
He exploded. Parts flew from his front; a cloud of dust rose into the air! His death roar ended in a burning smell that brought the family running into the front hallway.

Sadly, I wheeled him onto the porch and went about cleaning the old-school way: broom and dustpan, rug-beating. It was okay, but it wasn't the job old Hoovie would have done.

He's still on the porch, standing there dejected against the post, his bag dirty and streaked. Still, there's some pride to him, the aura of a life well-lived, dirt and endless unmentionables well sucked, the repair shop avoided his long life. He's seen the country, Hoovie has, from the east to the west coast. A summer day in Pennsylvania was not a bad time to go. And he went in style. It's what Hoovie would have wanted.

Lovely Old Pennsylvania

There are few things that delight me more than driving past fields of corn. When we spent a year in Iowa, it took me almost ten months to begin appreciating the loveliness of the cornfields. In winter they were forbidding and eerie, wide stretches of wind-blighted desolation. Driving home from LaMars in January, I'd be blinded by sheets of blowing snow--once I became so confused at the debris swirling across with the flakes that I spied a white rabbit streaking in front of our fender. It must have been going eighty miles an hour, a white rabbit on a tiny snowmobile, ears laid back. Martin assured me that I was suffering some kind of mental illness and there had been no rabbit. Still I'm not entirely sure.

During the trip from Orange City, Iowa, to La Mars, where we drove to do much of our shopping, there was one tree, the only tree for twenty or thirty miles. It was tall and twisting on the smallest of rises with a sea of cornfields all around. I began looking forward to that tree, calling it by name: to me, a lover of trees, it was a sign of grace as I drove through that blank, barren landscape. The cold and the wind in that place left me breathless. One February I drove out to Walmart and bought a huge palm fern, which I stuffed into the back of our two-door Honda. It was freezing outside but the sun was strong and hot through the car windows. On the way home I sang out loud out of the pure joy afforded by this green tropical presence behind me. I do not think the palm weathered its brief contact with below 0 temperatures and thirty minutes of a car heater blasting, but it was worth the investment just for that giddy trip home.

Then came summer again, the summer before we left to move to Pennsylvania. The last two months of our stay in Iowa, the fields bewitched me: waves and waves of corn broken by bright explosions of sunflowers.

And then we moved east, back to my beloved forests of trees. No longer did I love one tree; there are so many that it is impossible to bestow my faithful affection on just one trunk and branches. Every day we walk or drive through an impossible richness of trees.

Some weeks ago, we drove home from holiday with Martin's family at Hershey; the drive home was spectacular in an eastern sort of way; farm houses, rolling hills, tiny towns filled with old bungalows, tiny farms and fields of corn and soybeans punctuated by fenced gardens of zinnias, echinacea, neat rows of vegetables.

Have patience through the chaos; wait until you get to the corn!


Here in this incredibly green corner of Pennsylvania, I never get bored by the seasons; a quick trip out of town and I am bowled over, every time, by beauty. Winter is long and a bit dreary, but there are no endless bare fields. Instead there are white rolling hills, houses tucked here and there, cattle like black checkmarks in the snow, and bright birds in the frozen garden. Every place I have had the privilege to live holds its own sort of beauty, but I do feel grateful that I have never had to look for it here. It is everywhere I turn, in the small gardens of my neighbors or the tiny creeks that wind through the valleys.