Snow

Oh, my. Perhaps an inch to two inches of snow in a few hours. The flakes are heavy and soft and I feel like licking our porch railing--the ice crystals would dissolve on my tongue instantly. I expect there will be at least a delay for school tomorrow morning. It's the witching hour, the minutes of transition toward dark when my whole spirit feels heavier and heavier, when I turn on a lamp and its light seems meager and insignificant.

After darkness falls completely, my head will clear and I'll be able to better map out our evening. It's Girls Night again, the first one in a month, and though the girls are perfectly happy and well behaved, part of me still waits for someone to blow in the door, someone with fresh perspective and who is old enough to legally split a beer. I think, bound and tied by my own personality which longs for company almost all the time, that to live alone would be terribly hard. I crave the solitude occasionally but then when I have too much of it (which is only once in a blue moon, mind you), I begin to feel listless and without direction.

Last night, Martin and Merry took a warm loaf of pumpkin bread through the snow to the neighbor's house. According to Martin afterward, the house was incredibly warm and thick with cigarette smoke from all the relatives assembled, who sat at a table and "kept to themselves" while the woman, recently widowed, talked to Martin and Merry for twenty minutes straight. She said she'd always been most afraid of being alone, and now God has made her alone. Her love, with her for twenty years, talked so much, she said--at the sink, while he washed dishes, everywhere--and it used to drive her crazy, but now the silence is what she hates most.

Apparently the children found him at the kitchen table, bloodied and still, and called 911 (their mother works nights and was still at work), and then they clung to him until the police and healthcare professionals arrived.

The little girl met us on the sledding hill, her lips bright with lipstick. "Did you hear?" she said in a level voice. "My dad died yesterday." Her eyes were flat; her voice repeated the news to every newcomer. "Did you hear?"

"I'm so sorry," I said, and put my arm around her shoulders. And I am sorry, deeply sorry that family should be left without a husband and daddy.

Snow still falls. Elspeth is climbing on my lap, begging for Lightning McQueen music. The oven has preheated. Merry just finished her puzzle. And the darkness is falling, but it doesn't seem darker. Instead the snow spreads across the sky, piling on dark branches of trees, falling silently and steadily, a quiet and magnificent beauty.

Five-minute message

My dear friend, whom I know as well as my own hand, is in love with a man I have never seen.

My two-year old in blue mittens bangs at the front door: "I wanna come in! Mommy! I wanna come in!"

I am baking holiday pumpkin bread for a little girl who found her daddy dead when she walked into the kitchen two mornings ago. She is Merry's age, and her daddy was about Martin's age.

My five-year old mooned her sister and now is out in the snow making ice pies.

I am bent over the kitchen counter, typing, listening to the hum of my computer, the roar of a truck outside, the cries of my two-year old. I smell cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. My hands are cold, my body warm.

Life is an odd thing, all in all, full of wonders and happinesses and tradgedy, all in the same minute. It's a cliche but it strikes me as new.

A little cold, a little optimism

I'm sitting at the computer here, half undressed but still wearing my winter coat. Don't even try to figure that out. We're home from church and shopping (bought four bottles of wine, 41 boxes of Annie's mac n cheese, two gallons of milk--set for the week!)--and though I turned up the heat on our return, it takes a while for the house to feel anywhere close to 65 degrees.

It is an exquisite Sunday afternoon. snow, snow, everywhere, marked with footprints and shadows, the fence in reflection, slats ticking up the garden path. The happy squeal of a child flying down our sledding hill. Hopefully said child has missed the various dangers at the bottom of the hill: cold fire pit, frozen creek, picnic table.

Though we watched a fascinating BBC series on the Crusades this morning that left me both laughing at the stupid men who trekked all the way to Jerusalem without proper suitcases, and also full of the awful weight of their sheer barbarism in the name of God--though it is down in my stomach like a ball of lead--I am still filled with gentle optimism. Winter makes me so grateful for sunshine (see my column in the paper for this week), so happy for subtle colors--the wheat-browns of the tall grass in our garden, the snow on the shed roof that catches a bright white light, Merry's ridiculously pink coat travelling by my window. And of course the birds, six black wings flashing up from the ground into a sky so pale it might not be blue, but is.

this and that and the puget sound

Feathery snowflakes fall outside, illuminated by the street light. Tonight we ate our first King Cake, a traditional New Orleans treat--tender brioche dough braided and topped with icing in three colors. I chomped into the hidden baby and quickly passed the piece to Beatrix, who was delighted to find piece of plastic in her mouth. I am now to bake the next King Cake.

At our lovely friends house, we drank wine and ate cheese and sauteed potatoes and freshly baked bread, laughed plenty, washed and dried dishes, and watched their oldest son, home from college, break dance. He said when he was doing field studies in the middle of Podunkity, West Virginia, he lived many hours in a tiny room and felt the need to exercise, so he decided to take up break dancing. (This, I imagine, is not a thought that would have occured to me). Bea was especially impressed, and she and Elspeth went rolling over the floor in imitation.

Now, finally, the Puget Sound from the ferry railing:


And congratulations to Martin, who just got two poems accepted at Prairie Schooner.

And tea, and more soft snow, and happiness to be home with heat roaring.

OH NO

OH NO!

My cry after everything--my pictures I'd downloaded, the entire post I'd worked on during a precious hour when Martin took the girls--GONE. Just because my computer downstairs suddenly stopped wanting cookies. Who doesn't want cookies???

Well, my return to all of you was fresh, full of hope for the New Year, glorious, sparkling like the waters of the Puget Sound on an uncommonly clear day. Martin was gazing into the noonday sunshine; my father was holding Elspeth over the railing of a ferry, and the Cascades were snowcapped. I believe there were even dolphins flipping and seals shouting hello--and now you've just got me, kind of grumpy, jaded, attitude ruined by cookies.

So sorry to return to you like this.

I also described how full of gratitude I felt for such a wonderful vacation in Washington and Texas, how Martin and I went away overnight for the first time without children in seven years, our beautiful presents, and such good food that I went up an entire size. I was witty in the way I described my present detox (hardly any sugar/fat, only a few truffles as compared to a steady diet of truffles), and slightly sentimental when describing how much we loved being with family.

I opened the post with three funny anecdotes: one about Elspeth smearing bubblegum on her eyelids and in her hair today in the car; another about Merry trying to leave the house in two items of my clothing; and the third about Bea's potty training, the way she loves sitting in the bathroom and talking about "peww-oup" and singing the song, "Life is a highway! I'm gonna ride it all night laaa-onge. . ." It was rather funny and meant to bring you back to the warm, silly fold of Wazoo Farm after such a long hiatus.

But it's gone, all gone. Disappeared in a puff of internetty smoke.

Well, folks, I'm back. It's really nice to be home, cookies and all.

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.

Interested in wearing a bra on your head? Read my story in the O-R.

Attracting Females

Near the end of our chicken curry tonight at my sister's house in Washington, my seven year old nephew Josiah, who had been quiet during the meal, spoke up.

"Some males sing. Some fight. I'm going to dance."

We begged that he expand, so he said, "Well, male aminals like to attract females. I'm an aminal, and I'm a male, and I'm going to attract a female."

We asked Josiah to show us his dance but he said, "No. I'll feel foolish."

Bribing ensued, and finally promised four pieces of candy from the gingerbread house, Josiah scooted off his chair and laid himself, belly down on the floor, where he began to slither like a snake.

Bea was curious. Wearing her pink tutu, she sidled up to Josiah where she got down on her hands and knees right next to her cousin. Josiah jumped up.

"I attracted a female!" he cried triumphantly. Then he glanced around. "I need another male!" he announced, "So we can do the fighting thing."

Apparently he was pleased with his first experiment as a male aminal. When neither Granddaddy or his dad offered to take him up on the fighting thing, Josiah got on the floor again and began howling--and was marginally less successful with his singing than with his dancing,

But he received great accolades from the adults, and he is now, at this very moment, eating his reward: four delicious pieces of candy from the gingerbread house.

We,re here. Typing on my sister,s ipad. Super cool but i can,t find the apostrophe. Today sailed over the swells of the puget sound, cascades bright in setting sun.

Here we are in the Pittsburgh airport, waiting for our late airplane. As things fall now, we'll coast into Seattle around 2:30 am our time. Two girls will be quite sleepy, I think. Their mother, and their grandparents, perhaps a tad tired as well. We found a wonderful children's area and Elspeth and Bea are having a lovely time, watching Pittsburgh's own Mr. Rogers and running around a wooden plane and up and down a ramp. Mom just handed me a charming, engaging book, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society; since it's epistolary, it's perfect for airport reading.

Good news includes happy children thus far, and since it's not Christmas, there's no emotional wrench about missing all the magic. Think of us, holding sleeping girls, sailing high up in the air.

Headed Out

If I were smart, I'd go to bed now, chatter my way through getting undressed, plunge myself under the covers, curl into a ball, and wait for my body to warm the sheets. But I won't. I've trained myself; I practice a blind devotion to late hours. I love being awake when the children are sleeping, even after a day like today, where, as my mother aptly described, all events fit into each other like puzzle pieces, tightly without space in between. But I got everything done that I aimed to; last column for December written, last minute shopping accomplished, tea sipped with my dear friend, an interview conducted with Mimi (fabulous woman, fount of history), cakes baked for a University party, supper delivered to a new-baby-family, suitcases packed. At some point soon--perhaps the first morning when I awaken in Seattle with few to no responsibilities--I am fully expecting that Christmas will hit me and I'll be bowled over with joy and peace.

Just as an aside, I've been reflecting on how peaceful, generally, I feel these days, and I think one big reason is that I'm getting to work--a little and in spurts--but work nonetheless, and by this I mean work separate from the very hard work of parenting and running a household. I still balance this, in partnership with Martin, in the context of being with the children, but I find that after I write an article or interview someone, I have renewed energy to get on the floor and play tea party with the sweet girls. I recently saw a lovely mother with a new baby, and any sadness I felt at being "done" with babies evaporated. Ah, I love sleeping through the night; I love children who evidence a semblance of independence, and though I love holding a baby, I am content to give her back to her mother. I shall enjoy this small zen while it lasts. Wish me good speed, friends. I'm headed out of the freezing cold, due west.

At the risk of being Twitteresque and tremendously tedious, I have to share this moment with you. Close your eyes and imagine the warmest thing you can: your father's hand on your head before bed, a cup of tea wrapped by your own fingers, your feet in a basin of steaming water, a baby curled up on your chest, wool blankets wrapped about your shoulders. . .and then you will know how this one blast of sunlight, in the middle of endless days of grey snow, feels right now, flooding over my desk, lighting up the geranium leaf. Blessed shadows.

Also, the gutteral screaming of a two year old, announcing moment is over and naptime is imminent.

Twice-Annual First-Night-of-Exams-Open-House

Over thirty students packed into our warm kitchen and scattered throughout the house. One enormous pot of chili, consumed. Countless pots of chai, sipped and gulped. Double batch of cornbread, slightly overbaked, almost completely eaten. Texas sheet cake: crumbs washed away down the drain. Two students headbanged in the living-room. Everywhere, laughter. My parents arrived, squeezed into the hallway to collect their chili, and then fled upstairs, where they watched a movie with the girls, who eventually trailed upstairs. Nine-thirty: house cleaned,vaccuumed, dishes washed, kitchen mopped. Ten o'clock: bottle of wine, paltry leftovers, Mom, Dad, Martin and I slumped around the kitchen table, enjoying quiet conversation and an empty house. Will we do it again? Gladly we will, in another six months.

Christmas Mash-Up

Merry's question should have been adequate warning for the reaction of an entire room of people, faces flushed with Christmas: "What is the play ABOUT?"

As my friend Elesha (aka, Singer One in the play)said, "It's highly conceptual."

These were my goals as I wrote the script and directed a crew of wild children: to avoid a dry retelling of the classic Christmas story; to evoke a child-like spirit of wonder and questions; to keep the play, and thus the practices, mercifully short.

Basically, as I explained to my friend Sal this morning, the play was a God-spell like Christmas mash-up, with children asking questions, playing drums, singing snippets of Christmas carols, and reading short lines from scripts. They were dressed in a variety of colors and outfits from around the world and scarves were draped over a series of wooden stairs and tiny folding chairs. Granted, the last carol, "Joy to the World," in which the audience was supposed to participate, started in, say, at least three different keys, and may have never totally recovered, but the kids played their drums and Martin banged out a good beat on a metal chair, and even Bea, in her tiny Chinese pantsuit, joined in on the djembe. Afterwards there was a stunned silence into which I yelled, "That's our Christmas celebration for this year! And now we can all EAT!"

Which we did--I flew back to the church kitchen to cut up my Texas sheet cake. And nobody said anything about the Christmas play--not any of the women who came back to retrieve pots of soup or casseroles for the pot-luck table, not any of the men who cleared up afterward. I'm used to Baptists or free-wheeling nondenominationalists or dry but funny Episcopalians who, in their various ways, gush a little more: "Oh, honey, that was so cuuute," a Baptist Texan at Martin's parent's church might have said (I imagined), "Those kids looked so dahlin' up there, and they beat their drums so well."

From the Mennonites, nothing. I couldn't figure out whether it was because one is not supposed to congratulate anyone on their accomplishments, since all the glory is due God, or whether they just all were so confused they had no idea what in the world to say. Finally I dropped a word to young-church-lady Rachel, who was collecting cutlery and setting up the tea bags in little baskets, and she confirmed that the children had really enjoyed themselves. Not a single word from the rest of church-goers, and was I being paranoid when I caught a funny light in the choir director's eyes when she spoke to me later over plates of sloppy joe and unidentifiable food?

Not to worry; I ate a lot of dessert with good people, sang some carols, and the kids beat their drums and waved scarves all evening, through the eating and the sacred singing, creating such a racket on stage that most of us were afraid to watch lest we must chide for irresponsible behavior. But I think all that joyful racket was an indication that THEY GOT IT, they got the Christmas fever, or the Christmas FEVA, man. As I ate my tenth slice of cake, Martin grinned and said, "Just see if they ask YOU to do the Christmas play again!" and we high-fived.

Merry Christmas, people. Rock the season. There's much to celebrate, much play to be had, little cause for overwrought solemnity, more cause for drum-beating and flashes of light and crying babies--and children, like wayward, dirty shepherds, yelling and spreading their raucous joy all over our stages and our lives.