Daddy's Garden

This month, if you flip open the covers of the national children's magazine, Ladybug, you'll find a story called "Daddy's Garden" about a gentle Daddy who finds a snake in the family garden.  A girl named Merry narrates the story, and there are three more characters--Elspeth, her little sister, the baby, and Mommy, who tends to be a bit cautious around animals.

Coincidence?  Happily, no.  Though I've seen my work published many times in other venues, receiving my copy of Ladybug was, by far, the most satisfying and rewarding.

Here are a few of the photos that accompanied the first draft of the story, which I wrote as a birthday gift for Martin many years ago (check out Martin's long locks).  You can visit Ladybug's website by clicking HERE, though you won't be able to see the gorgeous illustrations (the Daddy character is especially handsome) by talented artist Betsy Wallin (visit her website HERE) unless you buy the magazine.  I had no idea what illustrations would accompany my text, but when I opened the magazine (breath held) I was ecstatic to see seven beautiful watercolors.

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.

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.

Truth is Overrated, Especially When You're Six

Tonight we gathered around our kitchen table and bowed our heads over steaming bowls of homemade chicken soup. This introductory sentence might make you feel as if this was a peaceful occasion. Much of the afternoon had been relatively calm--the girls were happy, they'd decorated some cookies and rolled some biscuit dough into pinwheels I slid into a hot oven. But the chaos that strikes shortly before dinnertime had indeed knocked us all upside the heads like clockwork and by the time I sat down at the table, all I could do was tip my head back in utter exhaustion.

Elspeth wanted to pray.

She told us they always pray in school before snack. "Really?" I said.

"Yeah," she said, folding her hands together. "Mrs. E. [her kindergarten teacher] makes us."

"I don't think so," I insisted. "That's actually illegal."

"Well. . ." she hedged. Maybe you should know that Elspeth is currently telling tales about everything under the sun. . .she drops a lie as easily as sneezing or shrugging her shoulders--lies to help herself out, lies too when there's absolutely no reason to lie. "Okay," she admitted, "Ben and I pray sometimes before snack." (I can't imagine this happening since she usually sinks her teeth into anything in front of her without so much as a "Thanks, Bozo," but who knows?)

Nevertheless, we bowed our heads and Elspeth began: "Thank you, God, that I had a good day today. Thank you for my sisters, Merry and Beatrix. Thank you for this food and I am so grateful to Mommy for being patient with me and also because she adopted me. . ."

I tried not to laugh behind my folded hands because most of it was such a nice prayer, but Merry spoke right up. "You're not adopted, Elspeth!"

"Yes, I am," Elspeth said, looking up. "Mrs. E. told me I was."

That Mrs. E. Apparently I'm going to have to write a letter into the school. According to Elspeth, she is the source of all kinds of craziness. But this is the same girl who, in preschool, tried to convince me that her teachers were making them climb through roof panels onto the roof. She also spun such skillful tales of utter hooliganism perpetrated by a poor boy named Thomas that I actually believed her for a while until another mother pooh-pooohed me.

I can only hope Elspeth can manage to stay out of jail in later life. Hope springs eternal since she recently asked me, "Mommy, can I be an artist when I grow up?"

"Absolutely," I said.

"And a teacher?"

"Yes, you can choose what you want to be. You can be an artist and a teacher." (Hopefully not a convict).

She looked as if I'd handed her the keys to her freedom. "Really? You mean they'll LET ME?"

Ah, my girl Elspeth. The killer of all my parent pride, the source of much joy and delight. You'd better be a mighty fine artist, my dear, to warrant your wild childhood.

Tonight I ate a half a chicken, stuffed under the skin with herb butter, that made me feel like a new person. Or maybe it was the bottle of wine that we finished with my sister and my brother-in-law, or maybe it was the mocha creme or the walk through the woods to the candlelit restaurant near the Puget Sound. . .or maybe it was all factors rolled into one delicious experience that made me feel that life was full to bursting with possibilities, all at my fingertips. If the Italian owner hadn't told us we weren't allowed to dance on the tabletops, I might have.

Here in Washington it is beginning to feel a lot like Christmas, though there won't be any snow for us. Tomorrow we'll take the ferry into Seattle to see the lights and ride the carousel with my brother.

We were talking tonight about the temptation to dream up a new life for yourself, and that dreaming is okay as long as it doesn't make you discontent with your life now. And I'm deeply grateful for all this life is to me now: my close community, family, and employments, our big old house and out-of-control garden. But sometimes I imagine what I want life to be someday: a tiny, tidy house, a garden just big enough for a vegetable patch, flowers, and a patio with a tiny table and herb pots, long mornings to write followed by a long, rambling walk down a quiet path by. . .where am I when I imagine this? By the sea? Back on Orcas Island? In East Africa? I have no idea.

Life is so often what we could not have dreamed, what has been given to us and fallen to us by a series of blind turns, what we have bungled into. What is intentional, of course, is how we stumble along our paths, with joy or with suspicion. How many undiscovered rooms still wait for me to open doors? I wonder. . .

Meanwhile, I find my thoughts returning to next semester. I won't be teaching and I'll finally have the time to work on a book. But I can't settle on a project. I want to compile a book of poetry, a novel, a children's book, and a memoir, but I have to choose one and stick with it. And stick with it I must, even through the long February days when I stare into the grey sky and find the same things over and over again--mostly bright birds with wild feathers askance, mostly red birds. Maybe I will have to swear off birds this winter.

Today is my Elspeth's birthday. She had a wonderful coming. Martin and I sang Christmas carols through my labor transition and then I rocked back and forth on a giant exercise ball and laughed with the midwife, Martin, and my mom, pausing to work through contractions until they intensified to such a pitch that I knew she was coming. I began pacing up and down the room and then I held onto Martin's neck and pushed her into the air and the midwife caught her like a football. That night I held her until morning, and I remember feeling completely content and happy. Her little head, soft with reddish hair, nestled under my chin. She slept so well and soon I took her home and placed her in a shaft of winter sunlight, where Merry knelt down and read to her from a tiny book. She felt like a natural, seamless addition to our family. Today I picked her up in my arms and smoothed a blond tendril away from her face, and though she is full of the moments of her own life and can't remember her genesis, she squeezed me back, and her arms were strong, and I love her for being full of exactly who she is.

It's late and I feel as though I am writing terribly, but I wanted to post an update even though I am as luxuriously full as a stuffed Christmas goose and as stupid. I hope tonight finds you all with something pleasant to drink, something lovely to read, and someone comforting to say goodnight to. Goodnight!

Better Late

I haven't had the heart to throw away our squatty little Halloween pumpkins. I thought they were appropriate to keep around for Thanksgiving, but after the Christmas tree came out of storage and the twinkle lights mingled with their old ornament friends, I knew something had to be done about the pumpkins. They were suddenly gauche, awkwardly crowding the counters with their generous rumps.

I kept them out of guilt. They are technically pie pumpkins and could feed a village for a day, and I felt as though I should be chunking them, roasting them, pureeing them.

And I've promised the girls, particularly Elspeth, a jack 'o lantern for the past three or four years. And we've never, ever carved one. I remember my dad covering our table in newspapers, I remember the sweet, spicy smell as my mother stirred the seeds in the oven. I always assumed they'd carry around this quintessential American memory too.

But I am mighty afeared of any kind of craft. Tell me we're going to cut out construction paper turkey feathers or tie dye tee-shirts and I break into hives. You think I'm joking? Ask the women who know me on a daily basis. They believe me when I say I'd rather clean toilets than scrapbook. So while other families sport their meticulously carved gourds, our pumpkins always remain unblemished by knife or marker.

Elspeth has made a couple attempts to take matters into her own hands. One morning two years ago, I came downstairs and found my Wustof Chef's knife, seeds, and orange guts all over the play stove. Her friend Ben cowered in the corner. "I told her we shouldn't do it," he whimpered. I checked and they both still had all their fingers.

This year Elspeth found a tiny pumpkin from a trash heap in some yard, brought it home, somehow worked off the stem, and began painstakingly fishing around in its belly with a table knife. "Don't touch my pumpkin!" she pleaded before leaving for school, suspicious of what all my daughters believe is a compulsive throw-away obsession. (Bea just found her Thanksgiving hat in the garbage can, pulled it out, shoved it down over the crown of her head and announced, 'I made this in school!' My friend Sal alluded to unpacking ornaments every year and how the children delight to see their paper Santas and pipecleaner reindeer--years of December school projects. 'You mean you KEEP them?' I asked, aghast. It had never occurred to me that I shouldn't be layering them with discarded papers and banana peels in the trashcan).

Yesterday afternoon, when our table was loaded with my netbook, papers, and crumbs still left over from lunch, Elspeth brought her pathetic little pumpkin to the table and began pulling out seeds again. Enough is enough, I thought, whipping out our paring knife. So there, on our Christmas tablecloth, without newspaper or ceremony, Elspeth and I carved our first pumpkin together. Then we carved a pie pumpkin, too, who Elspeth said was the little pumpkin's mother. We dropped in candles and Elspeth turned off the lights and put her little arms around my neck. "They're so beautiful!" she exalted. So the Advent season found our family eating dinner with the lights low, gazing at our jack 'o lanterns, happy despite the smell of burning pumpkin--someone hadn't quite cleaned out all the guts.

There was a bit of a problem with the bigger maternal pumpkin, though. I had meant to knife in some eyelashes but my attempts made the mama gourd look lost in anxiety. "That's because she's worried her son [the little jack 'o lantern with one tooth] is going to get cut up and eaten," Elspeth told me. Or maybe she's worried she's going to get thrown down the hill for the groundhog to feast upon, which she will just before Christmas. Crafts have a shelf-life, especially edible ones.

Our Christmas jack 'o lanterns. It's better late than never, right? Maybe next year I'll actually roast the seeds.

But let's not get carried away.

Last night, after the girls organized their heaps of trick or treat candy, Bea seized a Peanutbutter Cup and retreated to her Secret Place. (We trick or treat on Thursday--strange? Yes. It's a town tradition).

Secret Place is behind an armchair in the sun room. It looks as if Merwin the Mouse has taken up residence but it's Bea who discards candy wrappers, hides cell phones, and squirrels away her sisters' small toys.

Elspeth found the orange Reese's wrapper and produced it triumphantly. "Bea stole candy!" she announced, to which I responded with a stock line, drawn from many stock lines that I say to be a good parent even though they bore me:

"Well, since Bea chose to enjoy her treat early, she doesn't get any later."

Bea's face crumpled. "Mommy," she choked out, "You bweaking my heawt."

"What?"

"You're breaking my heart, Mommy," she said, beginning to sob.

So now I'm a heartbreaker. Better get used to it, girls. It won't be the last time.

Some of us get fancy

dandy lion or

their version of Dandelion (original by Don Freeman)

Energies

My loves, I have good news. Apparently the British lottery has awarded me their highest prize. I just got the message my e-mail. I have many, many plans. And I think all my friends will want to share in the cash cow so get your proposals together now. . .

Actually, I do have good news. We were granted an extra hour of time tonight, so instead of the hour closing on ten, it is only almost nine. Elspeth did not practice piano at eight, as we thought and cursed ourselves, the gods, and our schedules for our lack of time management, but at seven! Martin and I were generally starting to be a little grumpy until we realized that I had set the clock ahead by an hour--joy was ours. One more hour tonight to pursue our own peaceful edges, to make lunches, to drink Sleepytime tea.

Also in the jubilant Cockroft news: Elspeth can now play "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" on the piano all by herself. She was so excited by this that she sprung up from the piano bench and streaked through the living, dining, kitchen, and hallway rooms, giggling and clapping. Then she plopped on the bench long enough to plunk it out again, shouted, "CLAP FOR ME!" and did the lap again. This happened at least three times.

Merry, who also recently started piano lessons, approaches the instrument this way: seriously, with respect and a trembling sort of confidence that she will be able to read notes and some day run her hands over the keys like Keith Jarrett.

As I reflected over the phone to my mother, Merry's energy is like a stone, deep inside of herself. It's focused, private, intense, serious, still, contained. Elspeth's energy is like water, flowing like a mighty river that's skipped its banks, soaking everyone and everything in its path. Even when in her most intense concentration, when she's drawing, her energy is something wild to behold, and when Martin's dad walked over and looked over her drawings, he was astonished by their order and vision. "It looks like she's just scribbling over there!" he remarked, and indeed, Elspeth at work is a startling vision; she seems to tremble and jerk all over, her pen or crayon stabs the paper as if she's trying to kill it, and her hair falls into her eyes.

And Beatrix's energy? Maybe a brook? It's certainly not as wild as Elspeth's, though when she skips her nap, as she did today so we could drive down to an orchard to buy a couple bushels of Jonagolds, she's a force to be reckoned with. Here's a little piece of no-nap insanity; she stripped off her clothes, tore around the house, then froze in the hallway to hiss, "PISSHHHHH!" as she peed all over our wooden floor. I barely saved my slipper.

Martin's creaking up the stairs. Time to make lunches, I think. . .

Beatrix, running on mountains overlooking Missoula, Montana
Photo snapped by Elspeth

Summer Tomato Girl

Taken by godmother Kara
Missoula Farmer's Market
Elspeth with luscious yellow tomato

Spring Harvest

Spring Harvest
photo arranged and captured by Elspeth (subjects picked and eaten by artist)

Merry, after a long afternoon weeding
(I took this one)

Advanced June Cooling System(photo by Elspeth)

I'm in the garden. . . .

Where have I been? In the garden, drinking mojitos, unloading small mountains of topsoil, planting seeds, handing out popsicles to children, in the garden. . . .well, you get the idea. Gardening weather wreaks havoc on writing, as do the company of good people, cold minty mixed drinks, good food(as at our dear friends' house tonight) and hot days when the LAST thing you want to do is sit inside and stare at a computer screen. Winter is far better for writing.

I must fill you in soon about the small flood in our bathroom as well as the inauspicious preparation for our gig/poetry reading the other night. All to do with inexplicable things children do.

Two things. Sal took this photo of our little preschool graduate. Look at that snaggletoothed beauty. Hopefully she will not be missing any front teeth in any of her future graduations.

And happy birthday, Josiah. Many happy returns, dear one.

Owl Creek Farm

A big thank you to Eric Coffman, who took these lovely photos.
This past weekend, we considered standing on a hill top waiting for the heavens to part like curtains. We thought about waiting for the fire to pour from the sky. But we opted to spend two beautiful days at Owl Creek Farm instead.

Elspeth spent her entire weekend at the pond, perched at the end of the pier, where she caught a whole slimy pile of gorgeous salamanders. At the most, she said two words to me all weekend. Martin and I hollered out our tent mesh to make sure the two older girls were in their sleeping bags in the other tent; we spent an interminable night with Bea, who had a rocky transition to tent-sleeping, to say the least. As Martin said, it was like trying to share a tent with a bobcat. At another low point, I heard him mutter, LEGION! That might have been one of the times when she was flinging herself at the tent walls, clawing at her stomach and howling. No, I am not joking. The other twenty-two campers in the hay field would testify that I am telling the truth.
The next morning, she popped out of her sleeping bag, pointed at the mesh roof of the tent, and announced, "It's morning time! Look! The sun!" And she was perky and happy to be riding on the farm golf cart with Torin and the other kids.

We walked to an enchanting little waterfall and drank tea on the porch of our hostess' historical cabin. After the endless rain, the days shimmered.

And today, home again, I finally tackled the garden with a will. When I close my eyes, weeds and gnarled grass dance on the backs of my eyelids. Welcome, sun.

Today I pulled out a thick manila envelope with two copies of Louisville Review's latest issue. And my poem "Juniper Tree" was inside! I'll include a link once the site is updated.

Check out the seven boys (one is taking the photo), out at a Pittsburgh Pirates game. Around five, they stood in our driveway, chatting like college freshmen with their bright faces and excitement quivering in every muscle. Finally I said, "Go!" and they piled into the silver minivan, limbs hunched and folded up next to each other, and grinned.

The available mothers stayed behind, drank mixed drinks of questionable quality (I hate to follow a recipe), ate pizza and chocolate, and watched the children spread out over Wazoo Farm during the first clear, sunny evening in a cow's year. Foam noodle fights and all kinds of mischief occurred, including some that landed Bea in the kitchen sink for a bath and Elspeth in bed.

And Merry carried out her electoral process, in which Lily was announced president by vote, with Asher as vice-president until Lily moves, when Asher will assume the presidency. It was all very civilized; the children sat cross-legged in a ring on the lawn by the blue shed and listened to campaign speeches and then marked their ballots. I wondered at the possibility of a coup, but Merry had everything well under control.

And now I must go tackle the downstairs before sitting on the couch, watching junk TV, and folding laundry. It's a glamorous life but someone has to live it. . . .I've barely had time to think about my short story, "Empress Chicken" lately, but then again, perhaps that's a good thing, since I think I may have killed it. It may be dead, and you know what they say about dead things over time: they begin to STINK.

Happy Mother's Day

Three reasons I get to celebrate Mother's Day. Here they are, in all their quirky glory.

That blue glow on either side of the path are wildflowers called Blue-Eyed Marys.


All these photos were taken at Enlow Fork, the beautiful place we went hiking a week ago; my column last week described our meandering trip there and then the incredibe richness of this place. I wish my own mother and Martin's mother could join us for a hike, to celebrate all our happinesses. Here is a trillium and some Blue-eyed Marys for you.


Happy Mother's Day, you lovely ones, our sisters and our mothers, our dear friends and all who mother us and our children. Much love.

Aunt Sally took this picture of dear Elspeth at school. I'd write more but I'm post-weekly-column weary. I will treat myself to a shower, however.

Easter Girls: An unusually long display of photos without any poem at all

Easter afternoon, PA Cockroft style. I tried for a photo of the three of them, really and truly, but it was disastrous--so silly I couldn't post any of them.





I know it's just a glut of photos of the girls, but our family lives far, far away. Here's compensating! The lilacs, by the way, are simply intoxicating right now. . .
Currently, Beatrix is yelling from her crib: "Shake your body! Shake your BODAY!" She's apparently having a bit of trouble falling asleep.

for Kara, on her thirty-third birthday

My dear Kara, childhood friend, soulmate and delight of my heart,
I just wrote you a poem for your birthday, and if that's not enough
here are two of your nieces, including your godchild, offering you
a perfect daffodil, plucked in early spring in your honor.

Cleveland Pear on an April Evening

Tonight we stopped the car,
opened the windows, drew in breath
at the world of white lace
cut through by ebony bark.
With the windows down
it was all as real as we'd hoped.

and one more. . .

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.