FYI, folks, just got three short pieces of fiction published at Prick of the Spindle.
:) You can read them by clicking on that pink link up there.

And the OR column this week is my favorite so far, about this wonderful man who lives down the street from us (click on the Observer Reporter link, at right for more). I only wish I could have included all that he told me "off the record." At one point, in true Kim Cockroft bungler-style, I confirmed his wife's name: "So your wife's name is Margaret, right?" He looked humorously horrified and said, "Goodness, don't print that. She'll think I've been running around on her." (His wife's name is Nancy.)

It's a good thing I was taking notes for that interview, because after I'd taped the whole thing with my nifty new recorder, it went off independently; embarrassed at the sound of our voices, I panicked, pressed as many buttons as possible, and subsequently erased the entire thing. Machines stink. Pens rock.

Hot Blasts of Autumn

Bea and I spent the morning walking through the parks that span two of our favorite places--the library and Waynesburg University. Starting across the street at Bowlbly Library (a converted mansion with a resident library cat), we crossed into the greens of College Park and made our way across a little footbridge (stopping to check for trolls), up and around the gazebo, past the tiny pond edged with cattails. We finally edged around the fountain (full but not flowing) and up the steep path that leads to one of the ugliest buildings at the University--a big concrete block constructed in the dark ages of architecture: yellowy windows, no features at all, massive and blank on all sides. The Humanities building. Inside its unyielding walls works one of the most beautiful people ever molded, and from his glass jar we picked an orange lollipop.

It is quite warm again today--high 80's--but a wind gusts every now and then, the leaves drift across the grass, and the hills have begun to turn yellow. Merry's huge pumpkin out in the pool garden is striated with deep jade and dark orange. Tomorrow the weather is supposed to finally give up and become autumnal. High of 68 is what I hear. Now, that's something to celebrate!

I'm about to put an enormous bottle of white wine in the refrigerator. We will pop the cork, eat some Supersweet cherry tomatoes, and toast the real end of summer.

Elspea's Flights

Elspeth came back from a women's soccer game at the U full of news of Polima, who is her friend with red hair and blue eyes who lives in a white house with a black flag. And did you know that through our bedroom window, you can see not only the swing set calling Elspeth out to swing and the bright blue sky of morning, but you can see camels? Many of them, by the sound of it.

And last night Elspeth had a dream in which a throne became a wave the size of China that covered our house and all our belongings, including Merry's elephant. "After I dreamt that, I came into bed with you," she said. On first report, the wave also engulfed Elspea's Pink Bear, but that was a mistake. "I was actually holding pink bear," Elspeth clarified.

This is not to mention the reports of Elspeth's preschool teacher climbing through the roof (this was last year), the mountains of candy distributed freely at snacktime, or the horrendously scary stories some gentleman told all the children at recess.

I wish I could remember them all for you. But it's ten and my mind is trickling away. I wonder if Polima ever feels that way.

Egg Yolks

Is there anything more satisfying than the moment a taut cherry tomato POPS in your mouth?

Confession: I also love popping egg yolks in my mouth. I wait until nobody is watching and then I shovel in the entire yolk and. . .ah, bliss. This disgusts Martin. It may also disgust you. My friend Lindsay (see her blog, Light on the Ridge, in Calling Cards) just wrote a delightful piece about her family harvesting local eggs from a friend and her "girls." She's right about the difference between eggs straight from under a "girl" or an egg from a crate at market--the shells are beautiful, the yolks bright as suns. We get our eggs from our good friend Mike, who also sells pork from his "boys--" the main reason, for certain, that I am not a vegetarian. Ohhhhh, man, are his pigs deeeelicious. Even our vegetarian family breaks down and shovels in mouthful of Mike's pork or goes for a bite of his thick-cut, peppered bacon. Here's a chicken pic in return for yours, Linds.
I LOVE food. It is one of the most dear things of this life.

What is more glorious: the first golden cherry tomato of summer (or red, if you prefer), or the initial crunch of autumn's first apple, say a really good, hard Gala or the almost bitter Arkansas Black? It's almost time for a trip to one of our local orchards. This year, the kids and I are going picking for a change.

Oh, man, I am tired out tonight. I feel as though I can't quite keep the momentum going. You guessed it. Girl's Night. A walk through an uncommonly warm afternoon, spaghetti, broccoli delivered into our mouths by our fingers. Merry was shirtless and Elspeth was in her underwear. Try to figure that one out.

The girls did well, dressing themselves and each other for bed, tidying up, and obeying without too much fuss. And I am still exhausted. The powers that be forecast temperatures in the high 80s for the rest of the week. In Lindsay's blog, she's all get-upped in this darling woolen hat. I may just have to break out the girls' shorts again. It's been scorching these past months. Will somebody please remind me to water the yellowing plants on my front porch? I've given up on the hanging geranium. I'm not attentive enough. The romance is over.

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.

In Moments Like

If I were a comic strip character, I'd say "ARG!" just about now. Today, after church and two soccer games, Elspeth dipped into the tupperware of rice and, presumably, ran across the kitchen with it into the dining room. And someone drew on the wood floors with chalk. The kids watched TV this afternoon and threw their cheese-stick wrappers on the floor. My pretty brown leather shoes now officially pinch my toes. And in an effort to enjoy the evening, we went on a walk that actually stressed me out MORE--children ran amok toward roads (Bea hasn't quite learned yet), Merry insisted on riding a scooter over the cracked sidewalks, and I pushed a big, empty stroller and shouted: Stop right there! Stop!!!

In moments like these. That phrase takes me back to 6th grade, Nairobi, Kenya, our school on a hill surrounded by coffee bushes. The UN compound was within walking distance down a smoothly paved, quiet road. My first year there under enormous spreading trees. Mr. O's classroom. He and his wife had painted his desk in zebra stripes. I remember him as a tall man with hairy nostrils and a high, nasal voice who distrusted me, accused me of cheating, and then made me pray with him in the back of the classroom. He mocked my way of writing cursive "Ls" by demonstrating on the chalk board for the class. His favorite word was audacity, as in, You have the audacity to come in here and. . .I must give him thanks for one thing, though: under his tutelage I learned once and for all that A LOT is two words, not one. Oh, thank you, Mr. O. Good work.

Not uncommonly, our class sang praise songs in the morning. Carla D. was by far the holiest of all the girls: she would actually lift her hands in the air, palms up, and sing In moments like these, I lift up my hands. . . I can see her now with her blond Dutch bob and that unbelievably cute, lopsided grin. She could pray well, too, and she always had a following of devoted boys. I--Kimberly Long with the incorrect L--boasted badly cut bangs and acne. I'd also not yet learned that wearing a bra (a BIG deal in sixth grade, mind you) under a white cotton shirt could expose me to ridicule.

In moments like these. In such times as now, when I realize that my life is full of bits of chaos, good things, frustrating minutes and hours and a fuller measure of love than I deserve--in fifteen minute increments when I've been encouraged to take a time-out--I can begin to breathe again. There is the sound of crying from downstairs, but there's also the sound of birds singing as they fly across a darkening sky outside my window.

So I gather my skirts, lift them above the mire of my own issues, and slog on until I get to some dry, grassy ground. Here I go. Bedtime for the children. Teeth to be brushed, stories read, nightgowns donned. Then, QUIET.

FYI, jolly Sunday people, here's a link to my newest column in the paper.

Working From Home--ha, ha--Working in the Home?--Working not on the home but in the home

Good souls, all. I am actively ignoring tasks: three baskets of laundry, one turned over, guts spilled across the floor; wet sheets in the washer; pizza dough for dinner unmixed and unformed. My desk is a disaster--pages of a short story in a kafuffle with notes to myself about poetry and a column, all marked up, waiting correction; the CLMP blue book, cover bent, bristling with make-do bookmarks, and folders overlapping Merry's spelling words and Elspeth's pictures. And this is only the room I can see at this moment, from one angle. My life feels similarly scattered: appointments I must make, phone calls and e-mails to compose, prayers to write for church, and a million pieces of minutiae. And then this funny sort of bungling through writing--currently I have poems, columns, creative nonfiction, and a short story in progress (with the kid's stuff simmering on the back burner). I am in the midst of two books, one great novel by David James Duncan and one travel book by William Least Heat-Moon, and I've got three or four waiting.

So right now, I am forging ahead, not into the frigid waters of obligations, but through the warm, salty sea of my own private lagoon: first a cup of tea, then writing. As a friend of mine said this noon about the lunch dishes, "We'll let the Help get this--" of course there is no help except the kind that comes at the end of the day in a form of a partner arriving home or in the plea to the Greater Power: Somebody HELP ME, though God does not do dishes or fold laundry.

When home and work is the same place, it's best to be able to shove all the duties of one to the side for a few hours--it's the only way, really, and though I never imagined I'd be able to work in such a sty, I can. It's like I open a door into A Room of One's Own--not a physical place as yet but a good mental place. And everyone needs one of those, yes?

Happy weekend, everyone. Go and do something lovely. Multiply your best idea of happy hour and spend many of them the next two days with precious people you love, without working about your to-do lists. I'll try to do the same. We'll meet on Monday and see how well we did. Deal?

One More Random Picture, Last One

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

Another Random Picture

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

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

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

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

Random Picture, Random News

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

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

Speaking of which,

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

Oh, here's Merry with a message:

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

Is it a mess?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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