It strikes me that perhaps I should give a brief overview of the events of the past few months. In many ways, it seems as if magic has dropped us in this little red house, trimmed in wisteria, just a walk away from the water. On clear days the Olympics, framed by cedars, rise dark above the bright glimmer of Poulsbo's harbor. . .but that is for later.
Here, on this page, at least for a while, I am still at Wazoo Farm, though that beloved, rambling, hard-won old house and yard belongs now to two young women, who, on their free time, have been refinishing the floors and doing who-knows-what. . .there was always another job, or two, or six, waiting. So let me back up: it's early-June, and a hot early-June it is, too.
As most of you know, in a series of most unfortunate, rather awful events that had nothing to do with his excellent work or much-loved reputation, Martin did not receive tenure, and this signalled to us the beginning of an end. As some of his beloved colleagues began to lose their jobs as well, we realized that the University was taking a road we could never, ever walk (at this point, the decision had been made for us anyway, so in a way, that was a great relief). It became harder and harder to live in a town where we had invested everything with feeling that our departure, and the sale of our house, and all the work that leaving such a life would entail (mentally and physically) was imminent. Indeed it hung over us like a great heavy cloud.
We also realized that Martin's "sabbatical" year, for which we'd been tentatively planning, was suddenly upon us: a full year, at full pay, without any teaching obligations. We'd talked of travel and spending time near family; now there was no promise of work at the other end--so why not have the adventure we'd been dreaming of?
We came to all these conclusions, at the same time, silently and independently, on a hike in the mountains of West Virginia. The weather had been utterly sweltering and our lovely old home had no air-conditioning. Every time I looked out the window at our garden I despised it and all the work it entailed; it was so longer ours, it seemed, but we were still responsible for readying it--and the whole house--for someone else. We'd planned, of course, on pouring the next twenty years into it; now we had a year.
Our house was bursting with house guests, one of whom was in a life-changing crisis. A woman had verbally abused us on our front doorstep and threatened us and the police had awakened us one morning at one o'clock. (That's a whole story unto itself). We hadn't spent any quality time with our children in goodness knows how long and we felt unbraided and unravelled. So we escaped. We packed our car and drove up into the mountains and stayed in a little forest-service cabin, our first family vacation in what seemed like years. I hadn't been able to do any work so I planned to pack my laptop and squeeze in some good writing time, but Martin was adamant: no technology. No computer. No phone. Only a few games, our swimming suits, and groceries.
The first evening, after unpacking, Martin took the girls down to the swimming pool. The evening was cool and I searched around under the maples and oaks for kindling. Then I built a fire, sat back, and stared at the flames. Inside I felt a great knot, one that I'd felt looping and tightening in February, when Martin received his letter, finally beginning to loosen. I hadn't known it was there. I fixed a simple dinner in the tiny kitchen; I made the beds in the two rooms. Everything smelt of wood and woodsmoke. There was no noise. The girls came home, happy and flushed, and soon we were eating together around the chunky, awkward wooden table. We played a game and drank hot chocolate. That night I read a book silently with Martin in front of the fire.
I realized I hadn't spent such a simple, wonderful evening with my family in many months. Our house, our schedules, our hearts and minds--they had been full and frantic, so good and blessed, a basket always overflowing, that this evening felt almost ascetic, as if we'd walked out of a bizarre and fabulous and noisy carnival into a monk's cell.
The next morning we hiked together. The day was overcast, the path sylvan and full of wonder. We meandered around deep seas of green moss and gnarled, old roots that tumbled and twisted over each other. Here and there we found smooth, grey rocks balanced on top of each other in piles, and it seemed to us that other-worldly creatures, not hikers, had stacked them there. A wooden bridge curved over a clear sandy bank, crisscrossed by a clear stream. At the turning-about point, an impossibly large boulder balanced on a tiny rock. Then, at the very end of our hike, we found a thousand piles of zen rocks, all balanced perfectly. We stacked our own. Martin and both knew--independently--exactly what we must do.
On the way back to our cabin, I looked at Martin. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I said in a low voice. I didn't want the children to hear.
"I think I am," he said.
Sure enough, on the way home as the children slept, we began to plan our departure. It would be a quick, easy escape from all the heartbreak but it would be a tearing wrench to leave our community, whom we loved as our own family, behind. But the more we spoke, the more we realized that a flight northwest, thousands of miles away and without a long term job waiting for us, was an inexorable reality. For our family, for ourselves, for reasons we couldn't even articulate. We'd been planning to spend our lives invested in one place; we'd been released from those plans; we felt God's loving but insistent boot in our rears and felt the wind from an open door. Take as little as you can and leave as fast as you can. Go. You're released from all this goodness and heartache; there is new good waiting for you. Go.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Monday, September 10, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
I just wrote an e-mail to some friends of mine about how absent-minded I've been lately (writing can make you schizophrenic). I cut this bit for your benefit:
I've been spending a lot of time with Maple [the character in my book for young readers] these days. So much, in fact, that in the car I couldn't get out what I wanted to say to the kids, which was, "Roll up your windows!" What came out of my mouth was, "Boil your seats!" I wish the kids just knew what I meant. Mental telepathy, while dangerous, could be helpful.
And then tonight when Elspeth hurt her pinky finger I said, half-paying attention, "Don't worry, honey, you'll get a new pinky soon," and she stared at me blankly and a little worried and said, "What?" Oh, man. I'm losing it.
In other news, my friend Sal fulfilled a life-long dream of mine and rented a rollerskating rink for my birthday. What do you get when you combine a bunch of thirty- and forty-somethings with a bunch of kids ten and under? We were falling like flies. One of my friends ended up wrapped in heating pads and she and her daughter, whose sprained ankle was on ice, watched a "Mythbusters" marathon as they recovered. But baby, all those years of skating on cobblestones in Kenya paid off--I had the time of my life and even remembered how to skate backwards so I could finally fulfill a fantasy--skating in my true love's arms. Martin looked a little less than relaxed and we weren't terribly close, but we made it around the rink one entire rotation without wiping out. Sheer bliss. Check out Bea 'n friends "shaking their grove thing" by clicking HERE.
I've been spending a lot of time with Maple [the character in my book for young readers] these days. So much, in fact, that in the car I couldn't get out what I wanted to say to the kids, which was, "Roll up your windows!" What came out of my mouth was, "Boil your seats!" I wish the kids just knew what I meant. Mental telepathy, while dangerous, could be helpful.
And then tonight when Elspeth hurt her pinky finger I said, half-paying attention, "Don't worry, honey, you'll get a new pinky soon," and she stared at me blankly and a little worried and said, "What?" Oh, man. I'm losing it.
In other news, my friend Sal fulfilled a life-long dream of mine and rented a rollerskating rink for my birthday. What do you get when you combine a bunch of thirty- and forty-somethings with a bunch of kids ten and under? We were falling like flies. One of my friends ended up wrapped in heating pads and she and her daughter, whose sprained ankle was on ice, watched a "Mythbusters" marathon as they recovered. But baby, all those years of skating on cobblestones in Kenya paid off--I had the time of my life and even remembered how to skate backwards so I could finally fulfill a fantasy--skating in my true love's arms. Martin looked a little less than relaxed and we weren't terribly close, but we made it around the rink one entire rotation without wiping out. Sheer bliss. Check out Bea 'n friends "shaking their grove thing" by clicking HERE.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
It's Sunday and the children are a'bed. Last night, a good friend of ours (and a colleague of Martin's), wonderful poet and wise fellow Bob Randolph (his wife, Amy, is also a lovely poet and songwriter with whom we have sung many a time), sent us this e-mail after we potlucked with some good friends on Saturday evening. . .Thought I'd share it with you.
*
Hi Martin and Kim,
Amy told me that at Noah's house the other night, when Amy was there, Martin told about writing a poem and reading it to Kim as she stood working with something on the stove, her back to him. He said he finished reading and there was no response, so he asked what she thought of it. She turned around with tears in her eyes because the poem was beautiful.
Amy said that at that point, when she heard Martin recount that, she said to herself, "Ah, yes--they'll be ok."
I agree and want to amplify that a little. Tenure or no tenure, as important as that may be, is not the core, neither is promotion or not promotion, and where a person works or doesn't work isn't the core either--Stevens sold insurance, Ginsberg got kicked out of college, Snyder sailed around all over as a merchant seaman--writers write; to a writer what can matter more than writing something so beautiful it brings tears to your soul-mate. That's what we do. That's what we build our universes out of. The rest is stuff, but that's the heart of it.
So I'm with Amy on this.
The two of you standing by that stove may not be much to some people, but to me, Martin, it's exactly why you should be hired at Harvard, or anywhere else.
(At least, that's the sort of thing the universe I bank on comes from.)
In the midst of talk of . . ., talk of abiding sorrow, a man reads a poem to his wife in the kitchen as she is cooking, and the poem is so beautiful it makes her cry. That's the diamond and the truth.
Bob
*
Hi Martin and Kim,
Amy told me that at Noah's house the other night, when Amy was there, Martin told about writing a poem and reading it to Kim as she stood working with something on the stove, her back to him. He said he finished reading and there was no response, so he asked what she thought of it. She turned around with tears in her eyes because the poem was beautiful.
Amy said that at that point, when she heard Martin recount that, she said to herself, "Ah, yes--they'll be ok."
I agree and want to amplify that a little. Tenure or no tenure, as important as that may be, is not the core, neither is promotion or not promotion, and where a person works or doesn't work isn't the core either--Stevens sold insurance, Ginsberg got kicked out of college, Snyder sailed around all over as a merchant seaman--writers write; to a writer what can matter more than writing something so beautiful it brings tears to your soul-mate. That's what we do. That's what we build our universes out of. The rest is stuff, but that's the heart of it.
So I'm with Amy on this.
The two of you standing by that stove may not be much to some people, but to me, Martin, it's exactly why you should be hired at Harvard, or anywhere else.
(At least, that's the sort of thing the universe I bank on comes from.)
In the midst of talk of . . ., talk of abiding sorrow, a man reads a poem to his wife in the kitchen as she is cooking, and the poem is so beautiful it makes her cry. That's the diamond and the truth.
Bob
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Ritual
Yesterday on the phone my mother described her and my father's new Wednesday routine. She calls it "Bastard Sabbath." Now those of you who know my mother will know that she never uses slang (unless she's attempting an idiom--attempting and failing) and that she always utilizes words in their original, simple meaning. I say this to let you all know that "Bastard Sabbath," though it sounds like the name of a rock band from the 1970's, means that she and my father are approximating, or interpreting, their own sort of sabbath day. They've been reading a book by a Jewish rabbi about the concept of taking Sabbath days and decided to create their own sacred day in the middle of the week when they can discard their routines in the evening and replace them with simplicity, contemplation, and a book discussion.
"We'll fast during the day--not just from food, but from the media, and then at night we'll eat good soup and hearty bread and drink wine."
"You're going to be absolutely loopy," I said. "Nothing in your stomach all day and then wine."
"We're going to drink it slowly," she said, and began to laugh. "Like Shabbat--four glasses, but slowly."
"What?" I started to laugh, too. "Four glasses? It's going to be some kind of contemplative night all right!"
"Well, maybe we'll have to rethink that part," she said.
All drinking aside, my parent's attention to Ritual is something that Martin and I have tried to adopt over the years. Ritual is different than routine. Routines are ways of doing things you fall into without thinking too much about them; they become rote, and often even tyrannical things that eventually disgust you. But to nurture Ritual requires careful forethought, an attention to space and time, and a tender attitude of love.
Our days are full of small rituals that make each day extraordinary in some way (though they don't always happen as peacefully as we hope). Martin and I love tea time together, once in the morning and once in the evening, and that has become one of our most important rituals together: putting the kettle on, heating the teapot with a splash of boiling water, steeping the tea under the cozy, and sitting down together, taking a long, precious fifteen minutes (more if we're lucky) to discuss our day, our writing, our ideas and frustrations.
At night, we get the children to bed, put the house to bed, make lunches for the next day, set the table for breakfast, and finish the writing/grading work that we have inevitably still waiting for us. Then we always meet together, to play a game or watch a program on TV. Our ritual is always the same: one of us gets Sleepytime tea for the other, someone gets a snack. As we watch TV I scratch Martin's back, and he always gets up to get me another cup of tea. It's a simple ritual that I look forward to every day.
In Andre Dubus' short story, "A Father's Story," the narrator, whose marriage has dissolved, wonders about how that relationship might have been saved:
“I believe ritual would have healed us more quickly than the repetitious talks we had, perhaps even kept us healed. Marriages have lost that, and I wish I had known then what I know now, and we had performed certain acts together every day, no matter how we felt, and perhaps then we could have subordinated feeling to action, for surely that is the essence of love.”
Emotion fluctuates from hour to hour; our rituals are like pillars in our days, pulling us back together to focus on what's real and good.
"We'll fast during the day--not just from food, but from the media, and then at night we'll eat good soup and hearty bread and drink wine."
"You're going to be absolutely loopy," I said. "Nothing in your stomach all day and then wine."
"We're going to drink it slowly," she said, and began to laugh. "Like Shabbat--four glasses, but slowly."
"What?" I started to laugh, too. "Four glasses? It's going to be some kind of contemplative night all right!"
"Well, maybe we'll have to rethink that part," she said.
All drinking aside, my parent's attention to Ritual is something that Martin and I have tried to adopt over the years. Ritual is different than routine. Routines are ways of doing things you fall into without thinking too much about them; they become rote, and often even tyrannical things that eventually disgust you. But to nurture Ritual requires careful forethought, an attention to space and time, and a tender attitude of love.
Our days are full of small rituals that make each day extraordinary in some way (though they don't always happen as peacefully as we hope). Martin and I love tea time together, once in the morning and once in the evening, and that has become one of our most important rituals together: putting the kettle on, heating the teapot with a splash of boiling water, steeping the tea under the cozy, and sitting down together, taking a long, precious fifteen minutes (more if we're lucky) to discuss our day, our writing, our ideas and frustrations.
At night, we get the children to bed, put the house to bed, make lunches for the next day, set the table for breakfast, and finish the writing/grading work that we have inevitably still waiting for us. Then we always meet together, to play a game or watch a program on TV. Our ritual is always the same: one of us gets Sleepytime tea for the other, someone gets a snack. As we watch TV I scratch Martin's back, and he always gets up to get me another cup of tea. It's a simple ritual that I look forward to every day.
In Andre Dubus' short story, "A Father's Story," the narrator, whose marriage has dissolved, wonders about how that relationship might have been saved:
“I believe ritual would have healed us more quickly than the repetitious talks we had, perhaps even kept us healed. Marriages have lost that, and I wish I had known then what I know now, and we had performed certain acts together every day, no matter how we felt, and perhaps then we could have subordinated feeling to action, for surely that is the essence of love.”
Emotion fluctuates from hour to hour; our rituals are like pillars in our days, pulling us back together to focus on what's real and good.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Comfort at Any Price
This is how my night will culminate: trail mix, (maybe a bowl of cereal), Sleepytime tea, a little Dame Judi Dench on the TV, and my favorite red robe. Apparently I've dressed in this robe almost every (cold) night for the last thirteen or so years, at least that's what Martin claims. He seems to be ambivalent toward it, but I LOVE it.
It does not become me in any way. I found my enormous Land's End robe--red as holly berries--at an outlet center in Maine (I think--I can't remember now). It was far too big for me, especially at that time, but I didn't care. It was incredibly soft, not sensuously so like bird's feathers or spring leaves, but like a huge slipper--for my body. It has enormous pockets that are continuously filled with tiny choking hazards swiped off the floor or earrings removed at night or wads of kleenexes.
There is nothing attractive about this robe--it's 100 % polyester, bulky and voluminous; it completely hides any figure I might boast and the tie about the middle makes a big, unflattering knot. And yet it has been just the thing for three pregnancies and daughters who loved to nurse constantly and for as long as possible. It's as good as a blanket as I pad around our old, chilly house in sheepskin slippers where morning temperatures upstairs in our room waver in the 50's and 60's. I love this huge, ugly, comfortable piece of red perfection.
What's an ugly comfort you love? Give thanks for it tonight, as I shall when I wrap Good Old Red around me once again.
It does not become me in any way. I found my enormous Land's End robe--red as holly berries--at an outlet center in Maine (I think--I can't remember now). It was far too big for me, especially at that time, but I didn't care. It was incredibly soft, not sensuously so like bird's feathers or spring leaves, but like a huge slipper--for my body. It has enormous pockets that are continuously filled with tiny choking hazards swiped off the floor or earrings removed at night or wads of kleenexes.
There is nothing attractive about this robe--it's 100 % polyester, bulky and voluminous; it completely hides any figure I might boast and the tie about the middle makes a big, unflattering knot. And yet it has been just the thing for three pregnancies and daughters who loved to nurse constantly and for as long as possible. It's as good as a blanket as I pad around our old, chilly house in sheepskin slippers where morning temperatures upstairs in our room waver in the 50's and 60's. I love this huge, ugly, comfortable piece of red perfection.
What's an ugly comfort you love? Give thanks for it tonight, as I shall when I wrap Good Old Red around me once again.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Flashback to Friday Harbor
So your beautiful sister and her husband handed you an envelope with reservations and a map, and it's time to take your trip. First, drive toward Canada among mountains rising above green farmland. Park your car in a wooded lot and linger in the tiny gift shop, browsing through books and studying your fellow passengers.
Then it's an hour long ferry ride among the San Juan Islands. Stand at the prow of the ferry and watch the water churn away toward an expanse of blue water that laps at the banks of countless islands. Watch the water too long and when you look back at the table between you and your sweetheart, the mottled surface will move like waves.
Pull into Friday Harbor, where masts of sailboats rise like a white forest in the docks. There's a lovely little used bookshop run by a British woman up the street--remember, you're on foot and without a car--and after that you can wander over to the coffee shop that overlooks the harbor. The woman pouring your latte will tell you how she and her husband sold everything to live on a boat. They spend the summers sailing to Alaska. But she doesn't have kids, she adds. You can't have everything.
You have three children who are home with their grandparents, and today you feel like you have everything: your feet to take you up and down streets and down to the docks, into shadowy restaurants and little shops, back to a cozy room with a fireplace and hot tub where you can eat gingersnaps and drink champagne.
But for now, it's time to scope out a good restaurant for dinner. You'd like seafood since you're by the sea, and you'd like a place with candles and a good beer list since you're childless for the night. You settle on a little place that serves buttery mussels in the shell. Then there's fish and chips and another pint of local beer,
and you're happy enough to feel as though you're sailing, not walking, up the street to your little room, your little room with the chocolates and tea waiting for you. When you awaken tomorrow, there will be a gourmet breakfast followed by creme brulet for dessert, and then it's a fast run to the ferry (you've lingered too long at breakfast), and back among the islands and maybe you'll get a glimpse of a whale but probably not at this time of year.
Then off the warmth of the ferry--you notice the mainland, so close to Canada, is much colder than Friday Harbor. Pull your carry-on down a path to your car, and when you sit down behind the wheel, you feel as though you drove a car in your past life; is there a need for a car now? You feel as though you've been gone a week because it was so lovely but later, in your cold office in the middle of a gray February with the snow blowing outside your window, the San Juan Islands will be a dream of warmth, of sunshine in sails, of foaming ferry water, of the islands that seemed to move past you like whales.
Then it's an hour long ferry ride among the San Juan Islands. Stand at the prow of the ferry and watch the water churn away toward an expanse of blue water that laps at the banks of countless islands. Watch the water too long and when you look back at the table between you and your sweetheart, the mottled surface will move like waves.
Pull into Friday Harbor, where masts of sailboats rise like a white forest in the docks. There's a lovely little used bookshop run by a British woman up the street--remember, you're on foot and without a car--and after that you can wander over to the coffee shop that overlooks the harbor. The woman pouring your latte will tell you how she and her husband sold everything to live on a boat. They spend the summers sailing to Alaska. But she doesn't have kids, she adds. You can't have everything.
You have three children who are home with their grandparents, and today you feel like you have everything: your feet to take you up and down streets and down to the docks, into shadowy restaurants and little shops, back to a cozy room with a fireplace and hot tub where you can eat gingersnaps and drink champagne.
But for now, it's time to scope out a good restaurant for dinner. You'd like seafood since you're by the sea, and you'd like a place with candles and a good beer list since you're childless for the night. You settle on a little place that serves buttery mussels in the shell. Then there's fish and chips and another pint of local beer,
and you're happy enough to feel as though you're sailing, not walking, up the street to your little room, your little room with the chocolates and tea waiting for you. When you awaken tomorrow, there will be a gourmet breakfast followed by creme brulet for dessert, and then it's a fast run to the ferry (you've lingered too long at breakfast), and back among the islands and maybe you'll get a glimpse of a whale but probably not at this time of year.
Then off the warmth of the ferry--you notice the mainland, so close to Canada, is much colder than Friday Harbor. Pull your carry-on down a path to your car, and when you sit down behind the wheel, you feel as though you drove a car in your past life; is there a need for a car now? You feel as though you've been gone a week because it was so lovely but later, in your cold office in the middle of a gray February with the snow blowing outside your window, the San Juan Islands will be a dream of warmth, of sunshine in sails, of foaming ferry water, of the islands that seemed to move past you like whales.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Excitement Out the Wazoo
Last night, the girls were exhausted, so Martin and I plunked them into bed early and settled down for a "Psych" marathon, a big laundry fold, and ironing fest. We consumed cookies, tortilla chips, and multiple cups of tea. It was a party of sorts--tomorrow was Friday, an easy day for both of us, and we were going to have a great night's sleep. We finished watching a third episode of "Psych" at around 11 and dragged ourselves up to put the house to bed before heading up for toothbrushes. I tidied and started the dishwasher, and Martin, feeling tired and a bit grumpy, headed down to the basement to start the dryer.
It was after he came upstairs and shut the door that I heard a dull thunk, thunk, thunk sound, followed by the click of the door reopening and Martin groaning in disbelief, "Oh, NO."
I had a pretty good guess as to what had just happened. I hoped I wasn't right, and so I said pleasantly, "What happened? Is everything okay?"
Martin confirmed my fear. Now, before I describe what happened and admit that the blame lay mostly at my feet, let me just point out: the accident involved Martin's big feet, and the existence for months of two paint cans at the top of our basement stairs, one with the lid not quite tamped down, is indicative of a larger, more widespread problem at Wazoo Farm, which is not putting hardware-type things away properly.
If you'd been at our house last night just after 11:00, this is what you would have seen (and smelled): thick, exterior-semigloss blue splattered down our basement stairs and across the carpet at the bottom landing; Martin heading toward the epic mess with two measly paper towel squares, and me, (trying to see the humor in the situation while not setting off Martin, who is feeling grumpier than ever), looking in the refrigerator for my blue-paintbrush (yes, I'd wrapped it instead of cleaning it, knowing I'd need it again--and see, I did).
I encouraged us to count our blessings: what were the chances that Martin would have kicked down a can of paint in exactly the same shade as the stairs? Instead of cleaning it up, I explained, trying not to scoff at Martin's paper towels, let's just give those stairs a new coat of paint! This sounds easier than it actually was, since the paint was glopped all down one side of each stair, rendering the space where we could balance to paint very small and awkward, especially in our big furry slippers and jammies. Martin took the bottom landing and I took the stairs, carefully painting just half of each stair so Martin wouldn't be stranded, until I forgot and painted two whole stairs in a row. My careful resistance to laughter began to waver when Martin, paintbrush in hand, had to heave-ho up the flight of stairs with only four inches to rest his right foot at the top. At one point toward the end of the escapade he squatted like a frog, grasped the railing, and leaned down several stairs to finish painting the stair I'd also forgotten in what I'd mistakenly thought was fairly good logistical planning. Then he squatted for a while longer, as if meditating. "You're making me nervous," I said finally--I'd struggled against the urge to leave him for a moment to retrieve the camera, and now I stood behind him, ready to grab his p.j. shirt in case he suddenly lost balance and careened into the abyss.
"I'm not going to fall down the stairs," he assured me, and then he performed yet another yoga-like balancing trick to even out the paint several steps down. The fact that we weren't both covered in blue ("lupine" is the shade, by the way, and a very nice one) was miraculous.
That night in bed, Martin sat there reading (he'd gotten a second wind with all the painting). He was beyond accusations ("How long have those paint cans been at the top of the stairs?") and past grumpiness, and could finally see the humor in such a momentous accident. He stroked my shoulder lovingly and said, "I guess, considering we painted a flight of stairs tonight, that going to bed at midnight is pretty remarkable." And I concurred--it could have been so much worse--the ceiling could have fallen in, a pipe could have burst, our stove could have exploded. We'd gotten a little exercise to even out the cheesy tortilla chip consumption, too, and we wouldn't have to do laundry for another few days while the stairs dried. All in all, the great paint spill of 2011 turned out for the best.
It was after he came upstairs and shut the door that I heard a dull thunk, thunk, thunk sound, followed by the click of the door reopening and Martin groaning in disbelief, "Oh, NO."
I had a pretty good guess as to what had just happened. I hoped I wasn't right, and so I said pleasantly, "What happened? Is everything okay?"
Martin confirmed my fear. Now, before I describe what happened and admit that the blame lay mostly at my feet, let me just point out: the accident involved Martin's big feet, and the existence for months of two paint cans at the top of our basement stairs, one with the lid not quite tamped down, is indicative of a larger, more widespread problem at Wazoo Farm, which is not putting hardware-type things away properly.
If you'd been at our house last night just after 11:00, this is what you would have seen (and smelled): thick, exterior-semigloss blue splattered down our basement stairs and across the carpet at the bottom landing; Martin heading toward the epic mess with two measly paper towel squares, and me, (trying to see the humor in the situation while not setting off Martin, who is feeling grumpier than ever), looking in the refrigerator for my blue-paintbrush (yes, I'd wrapped it instead of cleaning it, knowing I'd need it again--and see, I did).
I encouraged us to count our blessings: what were the chances that Martin would have kicked down a can of paint in exactly the same shade as the stairs? Instead of cleaning it up, I explained, trying not to scoff at Martin's paper towels, let's just give those stairs a new coat of paint! This sounds easier than it actually was, since the paint was glopped all down one side of each stair, rendering the space where we could balance to paint very small and awkward, especially in our big furry slippers and jammies. Martin took the bottom landing and I took the stairs, carefully painting just half of each stair so Martin wouldn't be stranded, until I forgot and painted two whole stairs in a row. My careful resistance to laughter began to waver when Martin, paintbrush in hand, had to heave-ho up the flight of stairs with only four inches to rest his right foot at the top. At one point toward the end of the escapade he squatted like a frog, grasped the railing, and leaned down several stairs to finish painting the stair I'd also forgotten in what I'd mistakenly thought was fairly good logistical planning. Then he squatted for a while longer, as if meditating. "You're making me nervous," I said finally--I'd struggled against the urge to leave him for a moment to retrieve the camera, and now I stood behind him, ready to grab his p.j. shirt in case he suddenly lost balance and careened into the abyss.
"I'm not going to fall down the stairs," he assured me, and then he performed yet another yoga-like balancing trick to even out the paint several steps down. The fact that we weren't both covered in blue ("lupine" is the shade, by the way, and a very nice one) was miraculous.
That night in bed, Martin sat there reading (he'd gotten a second wind with all the painting). He was beyond accusations ("How long have those paint cans been at the top of the stairs?") and past grumpiness, and could finally see the humor in such a momentous accident. He stroked my shoulder lovingly and said, "I guess, considering we painted a flight of stairs tonight, that going to bed at midnight is pretty remarkable." And I concurred--it could have been so much worse--the ceiling could have fallen in, a pipe could have burst, our stove could have exploded. We'd gotten a little exercise to even out the cheesy tortilla chip consumption, too, and we wouldn't have to do laundry for another few days while the stairs dried. All in all, the great paint spill of 2011 turned out for the best.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Seattle, Week 2
This afternoon we floated over the deep blue waters of the Puget Sound on the Poulsbo-Edmonds Ferry. The sun shone for perhaps the second day since we've been here. From the upper deck, we watched the water churning from the ferry's engines, stretching out in a foaming path; in the distance the Cascades rose distinct and snow-capped; to our right we could see Mount Rainer's bulk, and to our left, the skyline of Seattle, where we'll walk about this evening with my brother and his partner, taking in the lights and finding a Thai restaurant. Or Vietnamese--the jury is out on that.
This morning when I ventured downstairs to my sister's kitchen, my mother met me by the coffee pot. "Does this day feel SPECIAL to you?" she asked. I peered at her from my sleep-blurred eyes. She pressed: "Because when I woke up this morning, the day felt really special."
After a few lovely days of Christmas presents, wine, and conversation, this particular morning promised house-cleaning (my sister's in-laws follow on our heels). I supposed that cleaning toilets would be pretty special, but I still was befuddled when Mom said again,
"Doesn't this day just feel really special?" Had I forgotten my sister's birthday again? I thought wildly. No, it's in January. What was my madre getting at?
Finally she caved. "It's the nineteenth!" she announced.
Sure enough. Twelve years of marriage to Martin. Martin was waiting to see if I'd realize why the day was special too; I'd greeted him this morning by telling him not to wake me up with his questions--since he's just arrived, he's still on Pennsylvania time. I've adjusted to Washington time, so he awakens me far too early with his bright chatter.
But after twelve years of marriage, he was unsurprised that the date had slipped my mind. He is celebrating right now by stuffing himself with corn chips and watching football with my Dad, a past time he dreams about at our house, where we scorn television but dream about watching it at other houses.
If anyone needs to reach me, I'm at my parent's house. Oh, and Sally, will you water my plants? Pleease? I'll send you some rare Seattle sunshine.
This morning when I ventured downstairs to my sister's kitchen, my mother met me by the coffee pot. "Does this day feel SPECIAL to you?" she asked. I peered at her from my sleep-blurred eyes. She pressed: "Because when I woke up this morning, the day felt really special."
After a few lovely days of Christmas presents, wine, and conversation, this particular morning promised house-cleaning (my sister's in-laws follow on our heels). I supposed that cleaning toilets would be pretty special, but I still was befuddled when Mom said again,
"Doesn't this day just feel really special?" Had I forgotten my sister's birthday again? I thought wildly. No, it's in January. What was my madre getting at?
Finally she caved. "It's the nineteenth!" she announced.
Sure enough. Twelve years of marriage to Martin. Martin was waiting to see if I'd realize why the day was special too; I'd greeted him this morning by telling him not to wake me up with his questions--since he's just arrived, he's still on Pennsylvania time. I've adjusted to Washington time, so he awakens me far too early with his bright chatter.
But after twelve years of marriage, he was unsurprised that the date had slipped my mind. He is celebrating right now by stuffing himself with corn chips and watching football with my Dad, a past time he dreams about at our house, where we scorn television but dream about watching it at other houses.
If anyone needs to reach me, I'm at my parent's house. Oh, and Sally, will you water my plants? Pleease? I'll send you some rare Seattle sunshine.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wait for it. . .
Our band's last gig at the Harvest Festival, photo courtesy B. RandolphMartin's beside me, picking out chords and trying to play Kings of Convenience's "Gold in the Air of Summer." The alternate tuning sounds really nice, even though he just stretched on new strings--the ends are sticking out like six lethal whiskers. New strings always sound cold and tinny, but he's warming them up.
Our friend Amy was just here practicing with us for our band's slot in. . .wait for it. . .the Faculty Talent Show at the U! Tonight Amy said we should all just quit our jobs and go on tour--our three girls and her daughter could ride along in the bus, do our accounts, set up and tear down for us. Who needs school? Tonight, over tomato soup and grilled cheese, Merry tried to get Martin and me serious about becoming famous. "You could go on the Prairie Home Companion," she breathed, her eyes round, "Or Mountain Stage!" (When you don't have TV reception, radio provides all points of reference. When asked at school to name a famous person, Merry named Carl Casell, who among other things, is the official scorer for "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," the NPR news show. . .and he IS in the Radio Hall of Fame.)
I said, "Merry, if Daddy and I were famous, we wouldn't get to spend so much time with you girls."
She took this as a valid point, though she finally concluded that Martin's and my dreams were old ones, and we'd probably fulfilled all of them already.
In a flash of warmth, Martin told her one of our dreams was to have three girls, and we did, and one of his dreams was that he would marry me, and he did,
to which I said, "That was one of my dreams, too." (I meant, to marry Martin, of course),
and Merry looked at me and asked, "You wanted to marry YOURSELF?"
I said, "One of my dreams was to have a smart-aleck eight-almost-nine-year old, and that came true." And she grinned.
I am losing any cohesive thread that might have linked this blog entry together. Oh, well. The girls get school off tomorrow for. . .wait for it again. . .the first day of hunting. They will not be hunting, but most of the county will. I will be doing laundry and writing an article and praying for the deer.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Martin Loses Locks. . . AND. . . Merry Encounters Tabloids
WHO IS MARTIN AND WHO IS EZRA POUND (from Wikipedia)?
MARTIN GETS ALL CUT UP
This man cuts me up. I mean, I cut this man up, or his hair at least. I had to eat a lot of gummy letters to get through this particular hair cut. Martin began the evening by showing me a ridiculous--but informative--video on YouTube of a gorgeous woman with dark hair cutting the locks of "her man." I think Martin figured I would have received an excellent education because he confidently set up our salon in the kitchen, complete with "Arrested Development" on the lap-top. I shook open the gummy candy and turned on the razor.
BEFORE
Three episodes later. Martin and I have had an argument (consisting of his doubts being vocalized insistently that I was NOT following the video instruction)--I won because I had the clippers and the scissors. The clippers pretty much jumped up the back of his neck and sheared him like a sheep. I put those away in a hurry, my distrust of machines proven yet again. And then I set to, clipping close to the scalp, eating gummy candies, and trying not to say, "Whoops" out loud.
AFTER
Here's "My Man," lookin good, like I knew he would. Like a British folk rock star.
_________________________________________
On the way home from a friend's house this afternoon, Merry said, "Mommy can you turn [the music] down? I have something very important to tell you."
(Background: she and her friend, Cat, had gone to Walmart together earlier this afternoon.)
Merry began to explain: "Cat and I were looking at a magazine at the store, and it had a picture of President Obama on it."
"Really?"
"Yes, and it said Obama wants a baby, but Mitchell does not.
"I think her name is Michelle, honey."
"And then it had a bubble with an arrow on it that pointed to Obama's finger and the bubble said, NO WEDDING RING."
Martin and I were beginning to grin but Merry was grave.
"It said, Mitchell and Obama have a TERRIBLE FIGHT! They looked very serious. The picture said, NO WEDDING RING." Later Merry said, "Cat said they're divorced. Or they're about to be."
Merry, welcome to the beautiful, scintillating world of tabloids at check-out lines, where the world is full of endless possibilities and opportunities for gossip.
MARTIN GETS ALL CUT UP
This man cuts me up. I mean, I cut this man up, or his hair at least. I had to eat a lot of gummy letters to get through this particular hair cut. Martin began the evening by showing me a ridiculous--but informative--video on YouTube of a gorgeous woman with dark hair cutting the locks of "her man." I think Martin figured I would have received an excellent education because he confidently set up our salon in the kitchen, complete with "Arrested Development" on the lap-top. I shook open the gummy candy and turned on the razor.
BEFOREThree episodes later. Martin and I have had an argument (consisting of his doubts being vocalized insistently that I was NOT following the video instruction)--I won because I had the clippers and the scissors. The clippers pretty much jumped up the back of his neck and sheared him like a sheep. I put those away in a hurry, my distrust of machines proven yet again. And then I set to, clipping close to the scalp, eating gummy candies, and trying not to say, "Whoops" out loud.
AFTERHere's "My Man," lookin good, like I knew he would. Like a British folk rock star.
_________________________________________
On the way home from a friend's house this afternoon, Merry said, "Mommy can you turn [the music] down? I have something very important to tell you."
(Background: she and her friend, Cat, had gone to Walmart together earlier this afternoon.)
Merry began to explain: "Cat and I were looking at a magazine at the store, and it had a picture of President Obama on it."
"Really?"
"Yes, and it said Obama wants a baby, but Mitchell does not.
"I think her name is Michelle, honey."
"And then it had a bubble with an arrow on it that pointed to Obama's finger and the bubble said, NO WEDDING RING."
Martin and I were beginning to grin but Merry was grave.
"It said, Mitchell and Obama have a TERRIBLE FIGHT! They looked very serious. The picture said, NO WEDDING RING." Later Merry said, "Cat said they're divorced. Or they're about to be."
Merry, welcome to the beautiful, scintillating world of tabloids at check-out lines, where the world is full of endless possibilities and opportunities for gossip.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Big, Bad Button Philosophy
Late this morning Martin disappeared upstairs for fifteen minutes and reappeared bearing a load of clothing. "There!" he said, and sat down and started to write a list.
I looked at the pants and shirts draped over a dining room chair. I knew why they were there--they were pending discards. I started to ask questions. "What's wrong with your cords?"
He looked up from his list. "I've had them for years. They don't even stay up on my waist any more."
"And what about that shirt?"
"It's tired."
"Oh. And these pants?" And so it went (with constant interruptions from Elspeth in the kitchen, where she and Merry were writing 'books': "How do you spell SLEEP? GIRL? WILL?").
Finally Martin looked up from his list and let me have it: "I've had the same clothes for years. That pair of pants rides so low on my hips I constantly think they're going to fall down. I feel like you're grilling me."
"I'm not grilling you," I said (you be the judge.) I had to admit, I did fondly remember the tan cords as being from our honeymoon. In fact, I think that Martin wore them out past the shower of birdseed to the 'getaway' car that December eleven years ago when we started our new life together--and he'd worn them constantly every winter after that. Still, they looked pretty spiffy to me. And a loose waist--well, pishaw, isn't that what belts are for?
Martin stared across the table at me. "I know you're thrifty," he said, "But I really need some new clothes. That's why I'm making this list. My heavy cargo pants are full of holes."
I didn't point out that a few holes here and there only facilitate air movement, which is healthy for the skin. That's what tiny safety pins are for, anyway. My purse strap and my favorite sundress are two examples of very clever safety pin placement. (Sorry, Mom, I know you're cringing--That's hilly-billy stuff and Don't air your dirty laundry are the two key Mom phrases that just echoed in the recesses of my brain. See? I remember.)
Besides, I do make an effort now and then to avoid safety pins. Right before we went to Hershey a few weeks ago, I felt a wave of goodwill wash over me (family in the house, a lot of chips, coffee, and ice-cream) that prompted me to mend one of Martin's favorite pair of pants for him. It was a daunting task--to replace a button (he, he, I am not kidding) but I bravely persevered, found a button that looked just right and searched through several boxes and catch-alls until I finally found a needle in Merry's sewing kit. And then I double-threaded the eye and sewed that puppy on. No way was it coming off. I felt so pleased with myself and I just knew Martin would be overwhelmed by my prowess as a seamstress.
He was so very pleased and surprised. I could feel my heels high rising under those figurative June Cleaver pumps as I watched his grateful face. In our hotel in Hershey, he pulled those pants up past his thighs and went to button them--hmm. Something was wrong. He tried to be appreciative, commenting hesitantly, "It's just that the button is a little big for the hole."
"No way," I said. "I tried it and everything." Which was just the tiny bit of an exaggeration, since I hadn't exactly pushed it through the hole. I'd more just lifted it up next to the hole and surmised in a quick, intelligent calculation that it was the perfect size. Knowing that I was stretching things, I turned seamlessly to the next tactic--shifting the blame--and added, "It was in your little dish with your coins." Had Martin pressed on in his queries, I would have said next, "Well, you can just sew on your own buttons from now on," which would have ended the argument somewhat ridiculously, since I don't make a habit of sewing on his, mine, or the girl's buttons. (Come to think of it, Elspeth has been wearing a dress with two buttons missing from the back for about a year now. When people point this out, I feign surprise or an easy-going acceptance of life's little hiccups.)
But instead of pressing the point, Martin just buttoned up. By this, I mean he bent over almost double. His face turned two shades of purple. But he got that sucker through the hole, darn it. It seemed to me that the waistline was pulling in his stomach like a draw-string bag, but he insisted that one didn't notice the button-defect until one tried to get the pants off--
which, during a haphazard dash to retrieve a runaway Beatrix out of our hotel door while trying to fasten his pants, resulted in a rather large abrasion on his shoulder, where he listed heavily into the doorframe. Later that night, after he fell asleep prematurely and awakened later in the night and wanted to slip off his clothes for a better night's sleep, he almost rolled off the bed in his efforts to push that mammoth button back out of the hole.
Martin wearing the Bad Button pants at the Hershey kiss 'Pretend You're a Factory Worker' demonstration (I am not joking--you package the kisses and then you have to pay money to buy the kisses you have just sealed in a box). Martin looks good, doesn't he? That's because of the prowess of the button-sewer. BTW, there's my saftey-pinned purse. Can't tell, can you?
The last morning in Hershey, as I was collecting clothes to go home, I pointed impatiently at his pants in a heap on the floor. "Your pants are on the FLOOR," I said, which is a bad, sorry thing I've done for many, many years: stating the obvious to assign blame.
"I know," he said. "That's where I finally got them off last night after trying forever to get the button undone."
I would like to point out, just for the record: This bad button job that I did, this struggle this good man has to go through every time he wears these pants, has not stopped him from wearing them. Nor, I'd like to add, has he pulled off the button and sewn on another one. I can guarantee it, and I'd put money down this very minute, that these pants will go the next eight years with this offending brown button, and when some sorry sap finally pays $2.50 for them at Goodwill in 2016, they will have to bend double to get the button through the hole. Though, by then, time will have done its magic, wearing the hole so wide that the button will seem as if it always fit, as though it were always there. It WILL still be there, attached by my very strong stitches, since in this effort, as in most, I adhered to this philosophy: If you're going to do something wrong, may as well go all-out and do it with a full heart.
That's the big, bad button philosophy. I hope it is one you will take with you this week.
I looked at the pants and shirts draped over a dining room chair. I knew why they were there--they were pending discards. I started to ask questions. "What's wrong with your cords?"
He looked up from his list. "I've had them for years. They don't even stay up on my waist any more."
"And what about that shirt?"
"It's tired."
"Oh. And these pants?" And so it went (with constant interruptions from Elspeth in the kitchen, where she and Merry were writing 'books': "How do you spell SLEEP? GIRL? WILL?").
Finally Martin looked up from his list and let me have it: "I've had the same clothes for years. That pair of pants rides so low on my hips I constantly think they're going to fall down. I feel like you're grilling me."
"I'm not grilling you," I said (you be the judge.) I had to admit, I did fondly remember the tan cords as being from our honeymoon. In fact, I think that Martin wore them out past the shower of birdseed to the 'getaway' car that December eleven years ago when we started our new life together--and he'd worn them constantly every winter after that. Still, they looked pretty spiffy to me. And a loose waist--well, pishaw, isn't that what belts are for?
Martin stared across the table at me. "I know you're thrifty," he said, "But I really need some new clothes. That's why I'm making this list. My heavy cargo pants are full of holes."
I didn't point out that a few holes here and there only facilitate air movement, which is healthy for the skin. That's what tiny safety pins are for, anyway. My purse strap and my favorite sundress are two examples of very clever safety pin placement. (Sorry, Mom, I know you're cringing--That's hilly-billy stuff and Don't air your dirty laundry are the two key Mom phrases that just echoed in the recesses of my brain. See? I remember.)
Besides, I do make an effort now and then to avoid safety pins. Right before we went to Hershey a few weeks ago, I felt a wave of goodwill wash over me (family in the house, a lot of chips, coffee, and ice-cream) that prompted me to mend one of Martin's favorite pair of pants for him. It was a daunting task--to replace a button (he, he, I am not kidding) but I bravely persevered, found a button that looked just right and searched through several boxes and catch-alls until I finally found a needle in Merry's sewing kit. And then I double-threaded the eye and sewed that puppy on. No way was it coming off. I felt so pleased with myself and I just knew Martin would be overwhelmed by my prowess as a seamstress.
He was so very pleased and surprised. I could feel my heels high rising under those figurative June Cleaver pumps as I watched his grateful face. In our hotel in Hershey, he pulled those pants up past his thighs and went to button them--hmm. Something was wrong. He tried to be appreciative, commenting hesitantly, "It's just that the button is a little big for the hole."
"No way," I said. "I tried it and everything." Which was just the tiny bit of an exaggeration, since I hadn't exactly pushed it through the hole. I'd more just lifted it up next to the hole and surmised in a quick, intelligent calculation that it was the perfect size. Knowing that I was stretching things, I turned seamlessly to the next tactic--shifting the blame--and added, "It was in your little dish with your coins." Had Martin pressed on in his queries, I would have said next, "Well, you can just sew on your own buttons from now on," which would have ended the argument somewhat ridiculously, since I don't make a habit of sewing on his, mine, or the girl's buttons. (Come to think of it, Elspeth has been wearing a dress with two buttons missing from the back for about a year now. When people point this out, I feign surprise or an easy-going acceptance of life's little hiccups.)
But instead of pressing the point, Martin just buttoned up. By this, I mean he bent over almost double. His face turned two shades of purple. But he got that sucker through the hole, darn it. It seemed to me that the waistline was pulling in his stomach like a draw-string bag, but he insisted that one didn't notice the button-defect until one tried to get the pants off--
which, during a haphazard dash to retrieve a runaway Beatrix out of our hotel door while trying to fasten his pants, resulted in a rather large abrasion on his shoulder, where he listed heavily into the doorframe. Later that night, after he fell asleep prematurely and awakened later in the night and wanted to slip off his clothes for a better night's sleep, he almost rolled off the bed in his efforts to push that mammoth button back out of the hole.
Martin wearing the Bad Button pants at the Hershey kiss 'Pretend You're a Factory Worker' demonstration (I am not joking--you package the kisses and then you have to pay money to buy the kisses you have just sealed in a box). Martin looks good, doesn't he? That's because of the prowess of the button-sewer. BTW, there's my saftey-pinned purse. Can't tell, can you?The last morning in Hershey, as I was collecting clothes to go home, I pointed impatiently at his pants in a heap on the floor. "Your pants are on the FLOOR," I said, which is a bad, sorry thing I've done for many, many years: stating the obvious to assign blame.
"I know," he said. "That's where I finally got them off last night after trying forever to get the button undone."
I would like to point out, just for the record: This bad button job that I did, this struggle this good man has to go through every time he wears these pants, has not stopped him from wearing them. Nor, I'd like to add, has he pulled off the button and sewn on another one. I can guarantee it, and I'd put money down this very minute, that these pants will go the next eight years with this offending brown button, and when some sorry sap finally pays $2.50 for them at Goodwill in 2016, they will have to bend double to get the button through the hole. Though, by then, time will have done its magic, wearing the hole so wide that the button will seem as if it always fit, as though it were always there. It WILL still be there, attached by my very strong stitches, since in this effort, as in most, I adhered to this philosophy: If you're going to do something wrong, may as well go all-out and do it with a full heart.
That's the big, bad button philosophy. I hope it is one you will take with you this week.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Holiday Part Two: Martin's Family
Mix a little time in the garden, a slip 'n slide, barbecue, a two-day trip to Hershey, a lot of cards, a little poker, a lot--and I do mean an obscene amount--of ice-cream, a good deal of conversation, pancakes, french toast, sweet children who love chocolate and night-time books
. . .simmer slowly for two weeks; douse with a ridiculous amount of laughter and flavor, to taste, with silliness
. . .and you've got a good holiday with Martin's family.
Oh, yes, and the zoo and Ohiopyle!
Did I mention the strollers?
The weariness that sets in with six children,
and then the wonderful evenings nobody takes for granted: the evenings filled with high-fat foods, games, laughter, and adults and decaf coffee, until everyone realizes that the little ones will be up no matter how many hands of Hearts you might have left in you, and then around twelve or so, someone groans and says, "Oh, guys, I have GOT to go to bed. . ."
I am in the envious possession of really lovely in-laws whom I love to spend time with. Tonight I was explaining to my exquisite niece, Isabella (who even dressed in soccer cleats and shin guards, looks like an Asian princess) that before she was born, her mom and I were good friends who did really fun things together, like play games and swim. . .SO, I concluded, I bet I can get your mom to go on the slip 'n slide with ME. (Why do children always assume their mothers are so "old--" Isabella's objection to why her mother would not go on the slip 'n slide, and the same one, I'd like to point out, Merry gave when explaining why she was embarrassed to have me attend a school function: "It's just that you're so much OLDER than the other mothers," she said, and then the next evening, after a heart-to-heart conversation, she took my face affectionately in her hands and crooned, "You look SO much older than thirty-two, Mommy. You look at least forty-two!" and proceeded up to bed. Wha??? Wait a second? Am I thirty-two or thirty-three? Help.)
Anyway, being with good family and friends makes me feel as young as I am, and I love goofing off with Caroline and Martin like we're all in college again. . .which we were. And not that long ago, either! Before YOU were born, we tell the kids, to which they respond with a dismissive sigh. Silly us. A time when they were not yet born never existed, and if it did, it must have been a very sad time indeed.
Jacob
Lily
IsabellaWell, not a sadder time, we could say, a happy time in itself and in so many ways, a much more carefree time. But a holiday these days without the sparkle and clang and patter of children? No, thank you! Am I really an aunt to six wonderful children? These children of my sister and sister-in-law, these children who will bend into me for a hug, resting their heads on my shoulder in absolute trust, children who will ask me to read to them and give me sneaky little smiles. Lucky me!
All thanks to Martin's Dad who took all the pictures in this post! No camera--now, that's a holiday!
Monday, June 14, 2010
Everybody needs a little time away. . .I heard her say (Chicago style)
Martin and I have been married ten and a half years now. We love being with one another, and when Martin's gone, I often begin saying something truly stupid or want to sing a song in falsetto and there's nobody around to laugh. He is my best friend. And like best friends, we always benefit from a little time away from one another. You know, "absence makes the heart grow fonder" and all that rot.
It's not that we don't miss each other--I look forward to seeing him every day he's gone--but it's just that we do fine without one another. And I'm finally to the point where I don't go into a blind panic alone with the three children, though I was SO happy, after three days, to pick up my good mother from the airport. We have been eating junk--hot dogs and Sonic burgers and Sam's Club samples and chocolate cupcakes and Target popcorn (the children's clothes are stained with cherry Icee)--though tonight we went into detox mode and steamed broccoli and carrots for dinner.
When Martin calls I greet him with a jolly, And how was YOUR day? To which he answers, GRRRREAT. . .I graded (today it was in the hundreds of) essays. Basically he just hunkers down around a table with huge bowls of candy and bottles of water (for the record, he's been eating much better than we have and stopped after only two Starburst the first day!) and reads essays for eight hours straight. After hours he and his buckaroos stroll through Louisville finding good drinks and eats and telling writing/teaching anecdotes. And he and I have made a pact to send out manuscripts to at least five journals while he's gone (it's supposed to be one-two a night but I've been lagging after my mother's arrival. Who wants to spend time staring at a computer when you can be with your mother?)
When Merry was tiny, Martin took off for a month two summers in a row--once for a fellowship, and once to make us some money. That was a LITTLE long--long enough to get into my own swing of things and go into culture shock when he returned. A week is nothing. Merry asked why he had gone and I said, "To make money for your playhouse," which seemed to please her. And don't tell him, but a week is just long enough to enjoy a little girl time--though four of us in the bathtub at once was a bit too close quarters for me.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Warmed Me After Yet Another Snow
Here is a story that warmed me after yet another snow yesterday. My father sent me this BBC story about a woman who gave birth in the flood in Mozambique in March 2000. I have a personal connection to this flood, since my mother and I were painting a basement room in their house in Wheaton, IL, when we received a call from my father's organization, telling us that Meredith Long was missing in one of the worst floods Mozambique had ever seen.
The water rose with incredible rapidity, they told us, and apparently Meredith decided not to evacuate. Someone reported that as she fled the flood, she saw a tall white man with white hair who was not running away. I looked at my mother and said, "Well, what do we do now?"
"I guess we keep painting," she said, and so we did. As we rolled the walls with blue I thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what finally happens to Daddy.
Later we heard he had spent the night helping people evacuate. From the tops of roofs he helped mothers and children climb into hovering helicopters, and then finally he jumped into one himself. My father tells this story with the sort of reining calm that characterizes all his stories, his stories of the tsunami aftermath, for instance. Matter-of-factly, in his quiet, unassuming way, he tells me details that kick me in the gut. Sometimes we have to pull details from him, and sometimes when we get him talking he tells us more than we expected, things that are hard to hear.
He's travelled my entire life. My childhood is filled with the smell of his suitcase, the way he unzipped it at the foot of the bed, swung open the flap, and dug around in his well-folded clothes to find a treat he'd brought us.
Both my parents possess this immense calm--I'll never forget my mother's even answer to my question when my father--her love and best friend--was missing, the way she prayed and just went on painting. Now I am a mother myself, I struggle to find that same peace my mother and father always gave us: the world might be exploding around you, but everything will somehow be okay, even if it's not immediately okay. Meanwhile, you keep on helping people. . .or painting a room.
Anyway, listen to the story--I thought it was wonderful.
The water rose with incredible rapidity, they told us, and apparently Meredith decided not to evacuate. Someone reported that as she fled the flood, she saw a tall white man with white hair who was not running away. I looked at my mother and said, "Well, what do we do now?"
"I guess we keep painting," she said, and so we did. As we rolled the walls with blue I thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what finally happens to Daddy.
Later we heard he had spent the night helping people evacuate. From the tops of roofs he helped mothers and children climb into hovering helicopters, and then finally he jumped into one himself. My father tells this story with the sort of reining calm that characterizes all his stories, his stories of the tsunami aftermath, for instance. Matter-of-factly, in his quiet, unassuming way, he tells me details that kick me in the gut. Sometimes we have to pull details from him, and sometimes when we get him talking he tells us more than we expected, things that are hard to hear.
He's travelled my entire life. My childhood is filled with the smell of his suitcase, the way he unzipped it at the foot of the bed, swung open the flap, and dug around in his well-folded clothes to find a treat he'd brought us.
Both my parents possess this immense calm--I'll never forget my mother's even answer to my question when my father--her love and best friend--was missing, the way she prayed and just went on painting. Now I am a mother myself, I struggle to find that same peace my mother and father always gave us: the world might be exploding around you, but everything will somehow be okay, even if it's not immediately okay. Meanwhile, you keep on helping people. . .or painting a room.
Anyway, listen to the story--I thought it was wonderful.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Boogie on down for Lent by Kevin
Our friend Kevin Mathman M. made this missive for us to magnify our magnificent lenten dancing. . .as he saw it. Oh yeah, baby.
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Thursday, January 29, 2009
A Moment of Sunlight, A Season of Fat
One nice thing about my office move is that I can enjoy the sunlight pouring into my window. Or at least I would enjoy the sunlight pouring in my window if there were any in this one-horse town.
Gracious me, though! I just felt a ray of sunshine. It wandered through my window and warmed my forehead, radiating down my face and into my body. I'll keep it tucked away and pull it out secretly later today. I don't even feel like sharing it. This is what the deep winter will do to you. I will guard my bowl of sunshine like a rabid dog.
In like way, I hoard little Toblerones from my Christmas stocking in my coat pockets and whip them out at desperate moments. Somehow the feeling of breaking off a little piece with my teeth and turning over those chewy nougat bits with my tongue is a pleasing substitute for sunshine during these endless grey days.
And the Toblerones, and the cookies, and the creamy coffee--it's all doing its work by giving me just that extra special something that keeps me a little warmer. Why fight against evolution? In winter I evolve into a softer, more well-rounded person, and in summer I shed it for long days in the garden. Now that I am over thirty this wintry padding may prove harder to shake than in past carefree days. But I don't give a flipping fig. Bring on the pastries! Bring on the peanut butter!
My good friend and Merry's godmother describes the Goldeneyes in Missoula, puttering carelessly around floating chunks of ice just as we float about in high summer holding a cold beer in one hand. Here's to feathers and fat, she says. Absolutely. I don't know whether she meant this as a recommendation, a "Go ye therefore and do likewise," but that's how I choose to read it. I am going, I am doing likewise.
Stay warm, all ye freezing ones.
Gracious me, though! I just felt a ray of sunshine. It wandered through my window and warmed my forehead, radiating down my face and into my body. I'll keep it tucked away and pull it out secretly later today. I don't even feel like sharing it. This is what the deep winter will do to you. I will guard my bowl of sunshine like a rabid dog.
In like way, I hoard little Toblerones from my Christmas stocking in my coat pockets and whip them out at desperate moments. Somehow the feeling of breaking off a little piece with my teeth and turning over those chewy nougat bits with my tongue is a pleasing substitute for sunshine during these endless grey days.
And the Toblerones, and the cookies, and the creamy coffee--it's all doing its work by giving me just that extra special something that keeps me a little warmer. Why fight against evolution? In winter I evolve into a softer, more well-rounded person, and in summer I shed it for long days in the garden. Now that I am over thirty this wintry padding may prove harder to shake than in past carefree days. But I don't give a flipping fig. Bring on the pastries! Bring on the peanut butter!
My good friend and Merry's godmother describes the Goldeneyes in Missoula, puttering carelessly around floating chunks of ice just as we float about in high summer holding a cold beer in one hand. Here's to feathers and fat, she says. Absolutely. I don't know whether she meant this as a recommendation, a "Go ye therefore and do likewise," but that's how I choose to read it. I am going, I am doing likewise.
Stay warm, all ye freezing ones.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
When Our Parents Were Younger Than We Are
Since the Guest Blogger seems to be distracted with other petty issues, such as his new summer class and the twenty trees that arrived while I am cooling my heels in Baltimore, I thought I'd jump on and post a picture.
So here's a snap of my parents when they were younger than Martin and I are now. They are just married, playing Monopoly:
These snaps always bemuse me a little, especially ones of my grandmothers at seventeen or twenty, in swimming suits or with dogs, giddy with being young and moving about in gorgeous arms and legs and glamorous hair. Puts time in perspective.
Good luck, guest blogger, planting those trees.
So here's a snap of my parents when they were younger than Martin and I are now. They are just married, playing Monopoly:
These snaps always bemuse me a little, especially ones of my grandmothers at seventeen or twenty, in swimming suits or with dogs, giddy with being young and moving about in gorgeous arms and legs and glamorous hair. Puts time in perspective.
Good luck, guest blogger, planting those trees.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
My Father is a Feminist
After staying up too late last night reading Wendell Berry's novel, "Hannah Coulter," in which the protagonist grows up working hard on a farm, going to bed exhausted from manual labor and rising early, I awakened around 7:30, longing for a sleep-in and coffee. Merry was singing a song at my elbow; Elspeth was alternately chewing on my nipple and crawling on my head. I stumbled downstairs and immediately and grumpily began taking stock of my husband's shortcomings. (My husband loves and looks forward to this pasttime of mine). He had not swept the floor or washed the cookie sheet from the night before; he had not fixed me coffee; he had not changed Elspeth's diaper. Never mind that he had cooked dinner the night before and cleaned the kitchen, or that he had fed Elspeth breakfast.
After a good strong cup of coffee, I was able to find my inner reason and begin again my internal discussion of feminism. What does it mean to be a daily feminist? Does it mean ticking off household duties, weighing out who did what and deciding whether I am succumbing to prescribed roles? My brother-in-law has pointed out that the women in my family talk hard feminism but love their men. Well, the two are not exclusive. Gentleness and feminism are not by any means contradictions of each other. And being a feminist does not mean that women are grouchy people or militants, though they jolly well have equal rights to those two things! But the point is, nobody, regardless of who they are, has the right to treat another person badly.
I grew up with the best parents possible. My mother was a feminist in every true meaning of the word; she consistently instilled in her daughters self-respect, determination, and idealism backed by the practice of hard work. She pooh-poohed moodiness, never gave stock to self-pity, and expected us to work hard and hold fast to true ideas of ourselves. Under her guidance, I never doubted for a minute that I was inherently worthwhile and strong. She generally espoused the notion I recently heard in "Mary Poppins," that while men with exceptional character can individually be adored, "as a race they're rather stupid." She did not encourage false vanity and even laughed at it but always, always affirmed that we were beautiful not because of how we appeared, but because of who we were, deep down. Nothing could change that, no matter what people said about us or did to us.
My father is a gentle, soft-spoken, easy-going humble man who works hard, thinks well, succeeds quietly, and loves us all with a deep, abiding tenderness. I have never heard or seen disrespectful behavior from him, especially regarding women. He takes a lot of flack and criticism from my sister and I, but he knows we are proud of him and hold him up as an impossible ideal for all men.
The point is, my parents are more who they are than what they do. My father has his PhD in public health and is a writer; my mother is a powerful speaker and has her Masters of Christian Education, which she took course by course with Kenyan classmates when I was in high school in Nairobi and enjoyed every minute of it. Both my mother and father are self-sacrificial. Both expect and value self-discovery and individual pursuit in each other, and share and nurture newness in each other. Both value family over everything else; both profess to love each other more than they love us, emphasizing that this is the way to love us best. They are not perfect, though I often thought they were. Their marriage is not perfect, though there is far more to admire and emulate in their partnership than to criticize.
My mother is a feminist, and my father is also a feminist. And how could a daughter ask for more?
I wish I could say I fell in love with my husband Martin at first sight. I did not. But I did fall for him at second sight, which is almost as good. After our second meeting, and after just one kooky, wonderful conversation, I told my roommate I had found the man of my dreams. Martin's mind and manner were the first draw; after that I found out he was a musician and a writer. I understood always that he was exceptionally kind in the deepest way. I didn't think much of his poetry at first, but as the years passed I began to think he was an excellent poet. It is handy to be married to a fellow writer, and it is good to be married to a life-long learner and a gentle person. When we married, we discussed children and decided that when we had them, we would both work part-time and stay home part-time. I can say in perfect honesty that Martin would have been happy to stay home full-time while I went out to work.
And then Merry came along. Martin was in graduate school and I was teaching English at the Jesuit high school in Missoula, MT. After my maternity leave, I went back to work, leaving Merry at home with Martin during the day. After work, I came home, Martin passed off baby like a baton and went on to his evening classes. It was miserable. Every time I stepped outside to walk to work, I felt as if I were ripping out my heart and leaving it bleeding in the doorway. Once I was at work, I enjoyed teaching my classes. But I couldn't shake the thought of all I was missing, with Merry changing quickly and still just an infant.
To make the separation harder, Merry refused to take my bottled breastmilk and cried all day, so Martin began rushing her in for feedings during my breaks. I barely saw Martin. We quickly realized this was no way to live.
And then I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I wanted to stop working at the high school and stay home with Merry. I longed for it so much that I categorically insisted that this must be. Martin felt a bit double-crossed, since we had discussed childrearing and agreed that we would share it evenly. "I don't care what I said then," I told him, "This is how I feel now." And so Martin sacrificed for me, and found a full-time job, and I got my heart's desire and stayed with Merry.
This is what the partnership of marriage is about: a life-style of mutuality and self-sacrifice. We have followed Martin's vocation to many different places, and though I take my vocation with me wherever I go (parenting at 'home' and writing), moving in pursuit of his job prospects has involved hard work and sacrifice from me. But it is mutual, and it is based on choice, and that is truly liberating.
I am baffled by women who talk as if they exist purely for the whim of their spouses. "Poor so-and-so," they'll say, referring to their husbands, "I haven't put on lipstick all week." And then, often in the same breath, they berate their spuses and denounce them as demanding and unreasonable devils.
I do not dress, or wear make-up, or do anything purely for Martin's benefit, anymore than he does everything for my benefit. To do so would be unhealthy, because acting in such a way would put unrealistic expectations upon each other. I do not wait around for Martin to fulfill all my needs. He does not depend upon me for his self-worth. If Martin died, God forbid, I would suffer, but I would not stop being a whole person with high expectations of myself and my daughters. And I would jolly well keep putting on clothes to please myself and nobody else.
What Martin says, or does, cannot change the person I am at the core of my being. And vice-versa. At the same time, we expect and celebrate all the things that we mutually contribute to each other and to our family. We realize that we are a small community of sorts, made to exist within a larger community. We realize and affirm that our love for one another must sometimes, and often, involves self-denial.
But true feminism does not come from a series of things I do, or what my profession is (though who a person is and what they do dynamically affects each other). True feminism comes from inside me, from a deep, unchanging well of self-respect and faith that I am whole, worthwhile, and capable. This is an ideal that I wish for everyone I love, male and female. It is a reality that I am constantly reminding myself of and working towards.
Tomorrow, I want to think more about feminism and its practical implications for my daughters.
But now my Elspeth is awake and typing with one hand while I breastfeed with the other is proving tricky. (Note to self: You chose this.) Right-o! So I did! Hallelujah!
After a good strong cup of coffee, I was able to find my inner reason and begin again my internal discussion of feminism. What does it mean to be a daily feminist? Does it mean ticking off household duties, weighing out who did what and deciding whether I am succumbing to prescribed roles? My brother-in-law has pointed out that the women in my family talk hard feminism but love their men. Well, the two are not exclusive. Gentleness and feminism are not by any means contradictions of each other. And being a feminist does not mean that women are grouchy people or militants, though they jolly well have equal rights to those two things! But the point is, nobody, regardless of who they are, has the right to treat another person badly.
I grew up with the best parents possible. My mother was a feminist in every true meaning of the word; she consistently instilled in her daughters self-respect, determination, and idealism backed by the practice of hard work. She pooh-poohed moodiness, never gave stock to self-pity, and expected us to work hard and hold fast to true ideas of ourselves. Under her guidance, I never doubted for a minute that I was inherently worthwhile and strong. She generally espoused the notion I recently heard in "Mary Poppins," that while men with exceptional character can individually be adored, "as a race they're rather stupid." She did not encourage false vanity and even laughed at it but always, always affirmed that we were beautiful not because of how we appeared, but because of who we were, deep down. Nothing could change that, no matter what people said about us or did to us.
My father is a gentle, soft-spoken, easy-going humble man who works hard, thinks well, succeeds quietly, and loves us all with a deep, abiding tenderness. I have never heard or seen disrespectful behavior from him, especially regarding women. He takes a lot of flack and criticism from my sister and I, but he knows we are proud of him and hold him up as an impossible ideal for all men.
The point is, my parents are more who they are than what they do. My father has his PhD in public health and is a writer; my mother is a powerful speaker and has her Masters of Christian Education, which she took course by course with Kenyan classmates when I was in high school in Nairobi and enjoyed every minute of it. Both my mother and father are self-sacrificial. Both expect and value self-discovery and individual pursuit in each other, and share and nurture newness in each other. Both value family over everything else; both profess to love each other more than they love us, emphasizing that this is the way to love us best. They are not perfect, though I often thought they were. Their marriage is not perfect, though there is far more to admire and emulate in their partnership than to criticize.
My mother is a feminist, and my father is also a feminist. And how could a daughter ask for more?
I wish I could say I fell in love with my husband Martin at first sight. I did not. But I did fall for him at second sight, which is almost as good. After our second meeting, and after just one kooky, wonderful conversation, I told my roommate I had found the man of my dreams. Martin's mind and manner were the first draw; after that I found out he was a musician and a writer. I understood always that he was exceptionally kind in the deepest way. I didn't think much of his poetry at first, but as the years passed I began to think he was an excellent poet. It is handy to be married to a fellow writer, and it is good to be married to a life-long learner and a gentle person. When we married, we discussed children and decided that when we had them, we would both work part-time and stay home part-time. I can say in perfect honesty that Martin would have been happy to stay home full-time while I went out to work.
And then Merry came along. Martin was in graduate school and I was teaching English at the Jesuit high school in Missoula, MT. After my maternity leave, I went back to work, leaving Merry at home with Martin during the day. After work, I came home, Martin passed off baby like a baton and went on to his evening classes. It was miserable. Every time I stepped outside to walk to work, I felt as if I were ripping out my heart and leaving it bleeding in the doorway. Once I was at work, I enjoyed teaching my classes. But I couldn't shake the thought of all I was missing, with Merry changing quickly and still just an infant.
To make the separation harder, Merry refused to take my bottled breastmilk and cried all day, so Martin began rushing her in for feedings during my breaks. I barely saw Martin. We quickly realized this was no way to live.
And then I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I wanted to stop working at the high school and stay home with Merry. I longed for it so much that I categorically insisted that this must be. Martin felt a bit double-crossed, since we had discussed childrearing and agreed that we would share it evenly. "I don't care what I said then," I told him, "This is how I feel now." And so Martin sacrificed for me, and found a full-time job, and I got my heart's desire and stayed with Merry.
This is what the partnership of marriage is about: a life-style of mutuality and self-sacrifice. We have followed Martin's vocation to many different places, and though I take my vocation with me wherever I go (parenting at 'home' and writing), moving in pursuit of his job prospects has involved hard work and sacrifice from me. But it is mutual, and it is based on choice, and that is truly liberating.
I am baffled by women who talk as if they exist purely for the whim of their spouses. "Poor so-and-so," they'll say, referring to their husbands, "I haven't put on lipstick all week." And then, often in the same breath, they berate their spuses and denounce them as demanding and unreasonable devils.
I do not dress, or wear make-up, or do anything purely for Martin's benefit, anymore than he does everything for my benefit. To do so would be unhealthy, because acting in such a way would put unrealistic expectations upon each other. I do not wait around for Martin to fulfill all my needs. He does not depend upon me for his self-worth. If Martin died, God forbid, I would suffer, but I would not stop being a whole person with high expectations of myself and my daughters. And I would jolly well keep putting on clothes to please myself and nobody else.
What Martin says, or does, cannot change the person I am at the core of my being. And vice-versa. At the same time, we expect and celebrate all the things that we mutually contribute to each other and to our family. We realize that we are a small community of sorts, made to exist within a larger community. We realize and affirm that our love for one another must sometimes, and often, involves self-denial.
But true feminism does not come from a series of things I do, or what my profession is (though who a person is and what they do dynamically affects each other). True feminism comes from inside me, from a deep, unchanging well of self-respect and faith that I am whole, worthwhile, and capable. This is an ideal that I wish for everyone I love, male and female. It is a reality that I am constantly reminding myself of and working towards.
Tomorrow, I want to think more about feminism and its practical implications for my daughters.
But now my Elspeth is awake and typing with one hand while I breastfeed with the other is proving tricky. (Note to self: You chose this.) Right-o! So I did! Hallelujah!
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