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Currently I watch a blizzard out of my window. A woman in a black hood walks down the road and picks up speed as she turns up her front path. Two cardinals, blood red, seem to jump out out of the bush by her steps: in a second they disappear. Where in the world did they go?

There has to be a porthole somewhere where I could poke my head above this white, white, and gray that has taken over our town for the last three weeks. Merry's been out of school for six and a half days straight, and even Bea (who wakes up and demands, "Where's sunshine?" and then concludes: "Down to seep" or sleep) is starting to find her own ways of coping: popsicles and chocolate. Every time we put her in her chair she looks at the freezer and demands: "Poptoose!" The other day I found her with a chair up to the freezer, holding an ice-cream scoop from the drawer. Goal: sherbet. Hey, if the poptoose is "all down" (all gone). . .

Today Merry gleefully led me to a pile of gold coin wrappers and smeared chocolate behind the couch, where Bea had been taking advantage of the left-overs from our Valentine's/Birthday tea. I cleaned it up while she napped but then later as she and I sat sharing a banana, she said: "Chocate!" and scrambled down from her chair and made a bee-line for her happy place behind the couch. "All down?" she said. I must admit I have been indulging in similar coping mechanisms, such as "evening up the cake." You know that game. With a fork, you trim the cake so it's even, and that takes a lot of concentration and a lot of eating.

Elspeth and I were having a knock-knock fest the other day when we deviated mercifully into riddles:

Mommy: Why did the elephant go out of the house without his coat, hat, scarf, and boots?

Elspeth: Because the stores were all closed.

Mommy: No. Because it was summer outside.

Elspeth (eyes round, astonished:) I didn't think of THAT!

Well, I've been pouring over the calendar, and though for a few blissful hours a couple weeks ago I forgot entirely about the existence of March (I like to skip right to April and the first robins), winter can't last forever. Right? Right? It can't possibly. . .last. . .forever. . . .

I'm Dreaming of a White February. . .

Yesterday when I awakened from my nap with the girls (I've had a nasty cough and been a bit tired), the snow had finally stopped. The sky was a stunning blue and huge clumps of snow were falling from the trees. Two happy birds circled one another in the sky. Below my window I could just pick out the shapes of our picnic table and forsythia bush, and the hump where our brave young oak tree was bent double under the drifts.


Yesterday morning, standing in the front path, Bea was rather puzzled and upset at the wall of snow blocking our path. The snow came up to her shoulders. Sledding proved a bit frustrating since at first the children could not find the sleds at all under the drifts. . .finally on their sleds, they tipped off again and again in the wet snow, topped by layers of freezing powder. . .but hey, it's pretty fun all in all, at least for we lucky few who have a warm house and hot tea to come back home to.

Up in Seattle my parents have been walking along the coastline in sunny, 50 degree weather. Thanks to us here in the east, they're enjoying an incredibly mellow February! Bully for you!

I've never seen so much snow, bar the one trip we took through a blizzard when I was eight or nine to Buffalo, New York. During our blizzard yesterday, I realized what a monochromatic world looks like: everything was covered in a heavy, blinding whiteness. The tall, spindly trees on our property line suffered heavy damage (see below).

We are one of the lucky families with power, which means we have heat and water. Our friends up on Poplar Ridge (see their link in my Calling Cards) are completely snowed in without power, water, or telephone. They're gathering wood for their stove, plowing themselves out oh, so slowly, and melting snow for water. The beleaguered power company estimates that power will be back next Friday!


Much of our county is without electricity and there are warming stations set up around town. While our corner of PA is not unused to heavy snowfall, it turns out this one was especially damaging because of the weight and wetness--beautiful, half-dollar size flakes that the children caught on their tongues also accumulated quickly to collapse power lines and tree limbs.

At this very moment I am looking at a fellow pushing his car up out of a slippery driveway--apparently the woman behind the wheel got frustrated with waiting and almost ran the fellow down--he jumped out of the way just in time.

Church was cancelled but we sang a happy song of thanksgiving for our warm house, our electricity, and good food.

Martin Cockroft, One Year Older, A Billion Times More Gorgeous

My man, Martin. One year older on the thirtieth (I remember his birthday with this rhyme: Martin is sturdy! January thirty!) Truly, my brain for numbers is so awful that this is the only way I could remember his big day. My mother called late on the 28th (note: we have been married for 11 years now). I thought someone must have died and I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. But a very happy voice on the other end in Seattle said she had called to wish Martin a happy birthday and--that's right--it's later where we are, right? So I tell you: I come by my number befuddlement naturally.

But back to the main attraction.

Martin was celebrated all weekend long on four different occasions. He baked his own birthday brownies but he did not cook his own birthday meal (and neither did I, for that matter--I kept on wishing myself a happy birthday until I realized, that's right--it's Martin--you're just standing in the right place at the right time.) I even gave him a luxurious sleep in, though the two older girl's CLEAN UP! song and Beatrix climbing all over him made it a bit of an interrupted one.

But this, by far, is the gift every Daddy really wants, and the one Martin got Saturday morning after his birthday pancake:

A MAKEOVER! He looked so pretty for his big day.

I wish the colors of the eyeshadow would have come out a bit better in the picture, but you get the general idea. As we were driving out to lunch, I had to tell him he still had lipstick on. . .a lovely light pink. I think something darker would actually suit him better.

I told the girls--(helped by our dear friend Catherine)--that they were really very lucky to have such a nice Daddy.

Lovin Me Some More Winter

I offered my neck to Martin this morning so he could touch my gland, which is, I am not kidding you, swollen to the size of a golf ball. I love this time of year. Really. I love bundling the children in ten layers of wool to pick someone up from school. I love looking outside and watching the snow blow in great icy clouds from the neighbor's roof. I love that we crawl from one cold to another. My sister used to say--I think it was in Wheaton, IL, where we had come straight from the shifting sunlight and warm floors of Kenya to the wind tunnels of our college where our snot froze as soon as we stepped from the teeming heat of the dorm building--"Just relax. It's colder if you tense up your muscles. You have to EMBRACE winter." So I'd try to unknot my shoulders, unlock my kneecaps, slacken my chattering jaw. And it was true, what she said, but I lack the discipline to relax so consistently.

Sarcasm does not become me, or so my mother would tell me if she were here instead of in WA cooking big pots of chili in my father's abscense.

This is how my mother cheers herself when my father is on a trip: she cooks, watches programs my father does not particularly care for, sleeps in (this does not mean SLEEPING IN the way a teenager might, but the way my mother sleeps in, until 7:30 or so), and shops the thrift stores.

When my mother travels, my father consoles himself by going to the grocery store and buying a head of iceburg lettuce. My mother looks down her nose at the stuff, perferring something with integrity, but my father secretely pines after his own mama's iceburg salads. Perhaps my parents hit mid-life crisis at some point, but it was not particularly dramatic: no motorcycles, swift red cars or religious conversion. Only waterlogged vegetables and new chili recipes. It's the way I like it.

Drama is good on TV series but not in families. And not in weather! This chapter of winter needs to come to a satisfactory conclusion. We've got February and April to go until the robin appears in our garden path. I'm not impatient exactly, just ready. That's it, I'm just graciously ready for some warmth. And so is my poor sore throat.

Little Bea

Courtesy of my dearie Sally M., here's Bea in a hat.

Wish I could write more but
a. I am too hungry,
and
b. I am being climbed by two little girls.

Elspeth's Prayers

Elspeth handed me a stack of white paper, scrawled in bright colors: hearts, butterflies, riotous dresses. "This is for the children in Katie," she said, "Because they died." (Elspeth calls Haiti, Katie).

After breakfast, I held the girls and we danced together. I've danced with the girls since they were babies, to calm them, put them to sleep, wake them up, burn off energy, and just for the mighty comfort and joy of holding and moving to music, warmed by the heat of their little bodies. I've danced since I was tiny. I remember, as a toddler, sitting on our cool concrete floor in Bangladesh, shaping my fingers into the intricate positions of the Indian dancers on our little black and white TV. Dancing has always been a private way for me to process change, embrace mystery, to dwell in sadness and joy. Seeking to pray, words often feel so silly and incomplete, a flat tinny sound where I desire a ringing bell. As I danced with the girls this morning I was finally able to step into the confusing tragedy of Haiti, be in it for a few moments, and free from words, pray with the movement of my own body and through my love for my own daughters.

Later, before quiet time, Elspeth wanted to talk about the earthquake again, but instead I asked her if she wanted to pray for the people in Haiti. "Save the children," she prayed, and "Thank you for making it safe in Katie," and "For the love which from our birth," she concluded.

"For the love which from our birth" is a line from our family hymn, For the Beauty of the Earth written by Folliot Pierpoint in 1864. We've been singing it with the girls since they were little. The full first verse is: "For the beauty of the earth, for the glory of the skies; For the love which from our birth, over and around us lies. Lord of all, to thee we raise this our hymn of grateful praise."

Amen, child. Despite of, and because of, and because I do not know what else to say to God when I am angry, overwhelmed, and confused and still filled with a love for my own which makes me ache for those who have lost everything. Still, Amen.

Christmas Past

My good father-in-law sent pictures. . .

So, late in the game, here are a few, almost all from Texas.

I had a post planned in my head--two days ago--but I am currently at BLAH stage. You know what I mean. The three girls are finally in bed, two so tired that they cried. Funny children. I feel as though I have earned my hour or two of mindless entertainment before sleep tonight.

So enjoy the pictures. Don't I have gorgeous extended family?

Merry and her cousin Isabella.


My beautiful new nephew, Jacob.

Elspea and her cousin Lilia.

Elspeth in her element, or one of them.

Merry and Martin embarked on a day of art in downtown Houston--they sketched, created poems about a Mark Rothko painting in the Mark Rothko chapel, and Martin conducted an interview with Merry. Merry's earlier art has been compared to a Twombly, and here she is outside the exhibit.

Two birthday cakes in one day: Merry wanted cheesecake, and Elspeth got the lemon-glazed vanilla gumdrop. Aren't they rather pretty?


Out of the warm TX weather, back to snow! Snow! Snow!

Bodums Up--Another School Day Tomorrow!

Dear me, my fingers are so cold. I usually have a space heater up in this room but my sister's family gratefully moved it down to the guestroom so they wouldn't have to wear ski bibs to bed. They are gone. I could retrieve it. I am too lazy. This old house boasts a fireplace in every bedroom--beautiful old fireplaces that must have warmed the toes and fingers of the occupants so long ago. Modern convenience triumphed and now we have one vent--in the hallway--that blows warm air toward the attic door. We bundle ourselves in robes and slippers and pray that the warm air finds us in our bedrooms.

Elspeth, darling girl, snuck in the room earlier, flung herself upside-down under blankets on my bed, and fell asleep. Sleeping children. Something eternally wonderful covers them, bathes their faces in summer sunlight. I want to put my head down on her chest and feel her breaths like the rolling of the sea. . . .

But enough of that somewhat sappy mother moment. Tomorrow it's back to school for Martin--Merry and Elspeth start their second weeks back. I must face my to-do list: Christmas bills, letters and my grant report to write. School lunches to pack, early mornings and homework evenings. It's been a splendid break, utterly splendid I tell you! We capped it off with a leisurely day spent with good friends who like to eat and laugh. This holiday has been full of such deeply good moments: eating, laughing, drinking hot tea and listening to the coffeepot burbling away. My mother declares a personal vendetta when she glowers at my Bodum Frenchpress (too fragile, too fiddly, too cool too fast). To please her I brought in Mr. Coffee. He spent a couple weeks at our house as a welcome guest--wreathed my mother's face in pleasure, and which daughter would not pay 15.99 for that? He left with the company and my intimate friend Bodum is back again, waiting for me to start another school day tomorrow.

Bodums up, mes amis!

Taking a Swim

Honestly! More snow!

I was on the phone this morning chatting away as my soul became more and more engaged with the tableau out my back porch window--fluffy black birds huddling on branches of what I call my "Bird Tree." Their head feathers engulfed their little faces like wreaths. The Bird Tree is incredibly messy: tall, gangly, hung with grapevines, not unlike a new, greasy-haired adolescent wearing too much jewelry. But the birds love the mess and cling to the branches and stray vines through the winter, which means I love the tree too. My Bird Tree and I are old friends, especially in the midst of the cold and lasting insideness. Here I am, happy enough but inside, with a baby on antibiotics, eating leftover Christmas chocolate and watching the snow blow across our porch roof.

I have boiled yet another pot of water in my jolly tea kettle. Here are my plans for the afternoon: to dig a deep hole in my living room, fill it with tea, pull on my bathing suit, and take a nice long dip in Darjeeling. Anyone care to join me?

After

Outside my window the neighbor's strings of white lights twinkle in the snow that has whisked about for days now. Usually, in wintertime, this time of day fills me with a sense of gathering gloom. The lamps I click on in defiance of sadness seem swallowed by darkness that deepens and creeps into the hidden spaces between my mind and joints. Tonight we said BOO to the gloom and set our little table with a bright orange checked cloth, a plate of jam tarts, and cobalt blue tea cups. We drank to being a simple family again, quieted for a second to listen to the happy, calming hum of the heater. . .and NOTHING ELSE. It's quite a change from having twelve people, half of them children, in our house for the past ten days. Before that we went awassailing to Texas--before that, endless parties and visits and a flurry of good intentions. The yells of victory over games, the child admitting defeat to another with tears, giddy laughter, the rustling of wrapping paper, snowy scarves, books and clinking of good eating with so many people I love so furiously.

Ah.

Silence.

Happy New Year.

Newsflash From PA

For immediate release

* * * * *
RESPONSIBLE OLDEST GIRL RECEIVES THRILLING GIFT

Merry Cockroft, responsible eldest girl of three, received a bright pink case of make-up Sunday afternoon. Her response?

"It's a relief and pleasure for me to receive something frivolous," she said, or would have, had she articulated the look of bright excitement that lit up her large eyes.

"Merry gets a lot of books," her mother said. "Everyone thinks Merry likes books the best, and she does enjoy them, but sometimes she just wants to be a kid. I try reminding her that she is the most responsible, the most mature, the most grown-up of young women. But she is eight. Wanting a frivolous present is understandable, I guess."

Watched by her younger sister, Elspeth, Merry carefully applied purple eyeshadow above and below both eyes. Then she walked around like "she was somethin' hot," a bystander observed.

"I like the black eye appearance," her father commented. "It makes Merry look older and more mature."

Both parents are processing Merry's unexpected glee at the pink duffel of make-up. "It will take us a while to get over the shock," her mother said, quietly zipping the bag around the twenty shades of eyeshadow, "But we must remember, children are complex. We may think they only like books and lists of spelling words, but they are full of surprises."

Elspeth, who is enjoying her book of Tinkerbell stickers, also shocked her parents. "We always expect Elspeth to do the unexpected," said her father. "Her mother and I were sure we'd find stickers on her baby sister, on the walls, possibly up her nose, and on pots and pans." Instead, her mother reported, Elspeth covered papers with the stickers--"Paper!" her mother emphasized, wiping a tear from her eye. "Just like really responsible children! It just goes to show you," she added, deftly swiping the makeup duffel out of reach of Elspeth and her baby sister, "Children are full of surprises. Truly. That's my Christmas message to you and your family this year: Enjoy the unexpected. I have."

Happy, Busy Weeks and Elspeth

Well, it's been an extremely busy holiday season here, and we're on the cusp of a trip to Texas. On the day we arrive back (Christmas) in PA, so do all of my family members!

Before I get carried away in the final pack/clean, here's a little Elspeth story I've been saving for some days now. A little background: Thomas is a boy in Elspeth's preschool. He features largely as a character of mischief in her stories, and the troubles he encounters and the devious nature he shows in her narratives are certain embellishments of what I am sure is a peaceful, calm demeanor. When I try to pry details of preschool out of her, mostly what I get are Thomas Stories instead. This one was too good not to record. Following are her words:

Thomas was inside his Mommy waiting to be born. And he ate one of his Mommy's bones. Then they jumped over the sea and he got swallowed by a fish. He jumped over the moon and that's all of the story.

Happy Christmas season, everyone!

Up Toward Ohio Pyle Park

Last Friday we took a long, long drive up toward Ohio Pyle Park so Martin could purchase his Rock-Collecting Permit. Ten tons of rocks from State Forests for five dollars a ton! Not a bad price, really, if you love collecting rocks. More about that later.

The drive started beautifully, dipped into Ugly and stayed Ugly for a while. But then Beauty rewarded us for enduring dreariness as we climbed in altitude--hills lush with rhododendron, ornamental pear trees still blazing orange, running fences and horse farms.

After a brief stop at the Park Office, where Martin obtained his rock-collecting permit (first one ever issued) and the girls flirted with a huge statue of Smoky the Bear, we drove a short way to Lynn State Park where we piled out of the car for our mile hike past Lynn Falls. Seemed as if it would be a simple hike until we realized that the thick carpet of leaves hid jagged rocks. We held the two little ones, since every time they began running they fell flat on their faces. Near the end of our hike, Elspeth chanted from my hip: "Stumble, trip! Stumble, trip! Stone man! Stone man!" I joggled over and around all the hidden rocks. As we hiked the light shifted through Canadian hemlocks, delicate fans of needles like frost patterns. The light began to take on a wintry quality as the sun fell. Underneath the leaves and among the rocks we saw thousands of acorns with hats lying askew. What lazy squirrels had missed these riches?

Occasionally, a crashing in the brush would make me look up for another human or a deer, but a little striped back would disappear over a rock--all that noise from a chipmunk! I wanted the children to see the little chaps but they moved too quickly and the children were too loud.

Night was falling quickly as we drove back toward home. Running colonial-style fences, constructed of crudely hewn black lumber, fenced in a field of dun colored sheep. On the hill behind them, black cows grazed; behind them hills rose, covered in bare armed trees against a the bright pink streaks of sunset. Trees arched over the dipping roads as we passed old stone farmhouses, bright red barns. A man outside his door stretched his arms out as if he were welcoming the warm evening.

And then we were back to Ugly again--bars and roadhouses forced us to stop at Wendy's, where we grudgingly ate our junky food under blue and red balloons given to our children by a clown dressed up with fake eyebrows and perky braids as Wendy. I glanced up from my bacon cheeseburger to see a giant cheeseburger passing by the window on the side of a semi.

Ugly shook us into Eerie as we drove by the powerplant with its huge towers white against the night sky, billows of white steam chugging from gaping mouths. We looked at a city of lights and electric spikes so close we could have tossed our giant Wendy's diet coke cup over the fence.

Ugly, Beautiful, Eerie, Exhilarating and Sad. That's our piece of America, rural coal mining country. Today as Martin collected ancient rocks covered in moss, he listened to the sounds of mining across the street, looked up to see the twisted stumps of recently felled trees and the deep tire tracks of excavators that bare mountains to dirt.

Post script:
That Friday night a magnet from the Forestry office, discarded on Martin's bedside table, advised me to "Get My Smoky On." What does this mean?

Greene River Trail

The Hiker in early spring
Bea in her green longjohned legs sprouting out of her sparkly pink nightgown, damp hair. . .she should drop off to sleep quickly. She gave a good, May Westish "Buh-bye" and then blew kisses indiscriminately as we walked up the stairwell. We had a funny sort of supper--tons of leftovers--but I told the girls they were having a four course dinner (better than what most princesses can boast) and they were utterly delighted: first course, scrambled eggs; whisked away to be replaced by beef stew; a plate then instead of a bowl and they ate up a piece of pizza; and finally I gave them each a rice bowl full of whipped cream for dipping their fruit.

We spent such a lovely afternoon by the Monongahela River--a tugboat pushed two barges down the water, which was so still it looked like a lake; the girls played in leaves and Martin built a rock fence by the Hiker, who was made entirely out of scrap metal by an ambitious boyscout. The Hiker signals tea time, but when we spread our blanket in his shadow I realized I'd forgotten our mug. This gave me the pleasure of a very brisk walk to the car and back whereupon I fell at the Hiker's feet and ate chocolate cake with my fingers.

On our way back Bea crouched down and crawled after a tiny cricket, marking his progress with her animated exclamations. At one point she became puzzled because he had suddenly disappeared; it turned out that he was rather squashed under her fat baby hand. I think he may be crippled for life, but how he was adored! At our right the hill rose up into a fringe of trees. At our left the horizon smoothed away in the glassiness of the still river. The air was unseasonably warm, but as we passed by the waterfall, a cool, muddy breeze blew down at us. We stopped and drank it in--the change was so sudden it was as if we'd passed into another world, another season, a memory of our childhood.

Then back home through the golden light spilled over the hills, the old beautiful houses and cows grazing and the smoke of a leaf fire. Finally the sheen of late sunlight was behind us; there was home and our funny dinner and baths and loud noises of children thumping up our stairs on their way to bed.