It's Real

Remember Spring?

How the crocus, like a sun bursting on your tongue, shocked you into seeing again?

When robins fought you for earthworms as you sank your hands into mud,

And the sun, warmer than bathwater, collected in your socks and you flung off your shoes

in the sudden rain, and the rain like mothers singing, stirred you to dance.

Eggshell white day; a blackbird at the top of a poplar on the hill, a robin with velvet belly in the bird tree, ticking his sharp head into the pale sky, jabbering a song I can't hear over the roar of the heater. Inside the house is grey but today it feels good, intimate, and peaceful. Maybe it's the Weepies singing from our stereo: "All this beauty, might have to close your eyes. . .we travelled all night, we drank the ocean dry, watched the sunrise." They're trying to persuade me that every day is ice-cream and chocolate cake. Okay, I believe it.

The girls have hidden fifty acorn tops around the house, and now I must go find them, tiny bits of childhood they've tucked in bookcases and kitchen shelves and behind couch cushions. They're lying on the floor, eating apples and chewing with their mouths open. They are reminding me every twenty seconds, "We can't wait any longer. Come look now." Yes. I embrace my duty.

Eating Crow

I was making lunch for the two little ones while talking to Martin about the short story I've been working on, "Empress Chicken," when another call came in.

"Hello," chirped a cheery voice on the other line. "It's S--."

"Oh, hello, S--," I said, wedging the phone under one ear and slicing apples. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said.

It struck me that S-- was Elspeth's preschool teacher, and I wondered suddenly if Elspeth were sick. Instead S-- continued, "I just wanted to let you know that no one picked up Elspeth today."

Until that second, I had been feeling blithely in control of life--I'd taken the two little ones to the grocery store and the park, the day before I'd finished my column for the week and another draft of the chicken story. The column turned out well and though the chicken short story was borderline garbage, maybe I'd be able to salvage it. I'd finally tackled the piles of laundry that were threatening to burst the walls of our bathroom, and I had a stack of peanut butter sandwiches ready for lunch.

"Elspeth! I forgot Elspeth!" I was more than fifteen minutes late. I've always consoled myself that though I forget everything else, I never forget the children. I can't say that anymore.

"Come on, you two!" I shouted, tearing around the house to grab my keys. Though it was forty degrees outside, I grabbed little E in his sock feet and threw open the door. Beatrix skittered down the sidewalk, barefoot and coatless.

The teachers at the preschool came to the door with big grins on their faces. The oldest said, "Don't worry, honey, it happens to all of us." I did not ask how many of them have ever forgotten their children.

My week so far is indication that maybe I have too much going on. Last night, as I drove home from a friend's house on a road I've driven countless times, I thought abruptly, "I'm going the wrong way!" So I drove for a while down the dusky, twisty road, turned around and started back the other way. Not long after that, the girls said, "We don't recognize any of this, Mommy." I had to admit they were right, so i I pulled off the road, turned around again, and drove back to the place where my mind had gone south. "Have you always turned at the old one room schoolhouse?" I asked myself again, gazing up the darkening road. I pulled the car up the hill and sure enough, I HAVE always turned that way. The girls chorused triumphantly: Told you so! and I fired back, "And THAT'S why you must always put on your shoes and socks when Mommy says. Because Mommy can't drive very well in the dark, see?"

This is not the first time such a familiar road has suddenly become strange to me. This is just the (let's see) eight thousandth time.

Today as I steered the car toward home, I muttered, "I'm becoming my mother." My mother has forgotten me numerous times on street corners and, most notoriously, when I was three months old, at a party. She and my dad went home, undressed, and put my sister to bed. They showed up later at the party in their pyjamas and asked for me, who had fallen asleep on the hostess' floor. My mother and now I celebrate a long tradition of forgetfulness. My greatgrandpa showed up a day late for his passage on the Titanic. This is not a joke. Most of us who suffer from chronic absentmindism do not get such a good story and a second chance at life. Instead, we wonder, as my mother often did and I did today, if we are slipping into early onset dementia. We vow to write everything down so we don't forget it. We consider leaving notes for ourselves with obvious messages like "Don't forget your five-year old at school." And we eat crow as a regular part of our diet.

Pay Attention, Silly

Beatrix, who screamed and poured out water on her sheets all through her nap as I lay down with Elspeth, is sitting on the trampoline with a red rubber spoon, throwing pieces of apple onto the carpet. Dressed in her sheep pjs, with her hair pulled askance from an hour of keeping herself awake, she's testing my appreciation for her sweetness at the moment. Merry is firing off math problems that are impossible for me to do in my head--What's 453 times 9? And then she triumphantly calls out the answer. I think she's cottoned on to my lack of enthusiasm for mentally struggling through the fifth problem, since she just said, "MOMMY. Can you. . .look, listen? Pay attention?"

All I want to do is write a poem or work on my quirky story, "Empress Chicken," which may die in the end, but I want to find out for myself. Bea just hung upside down from the bar on her trampoline and dropped herself on her head. A pause as she assesses whether she's hurt or not. A scream. I love the children, I love the children, I love the children. Why isn't my afternoon cup of tea working?

the Ancient Grumpilo

The heater's rattling away, and if I didn't know that Martin had been out until an hour past dark starting on a new pea bed, I'd half expect snow in the morning, just out of habit.

Overrated things: thriftiness when you feel like celebrating, square-foot gardening and all other super-organized gardening methods, words like "fave" and "most-faved," bloggers who mark each of their photos with massive copyrights, pensive authors on bookjackets, inner pressure to rip out the wild violets in the front flowerbed (they can't help it that they are weeds and the leaves are so shiny and pretty), deadlines of all kinds, feeling cold in springtime, soccer practice three nights a week, rejections containing the phrase "just wasn't right" and that end, "Best of luck," people who complain endlessly on their blogs, . . .ME!

So that's enough from the ancient Grumpilo, who is residing right now in my bladder, grumbling bad talk even though the kids are in bed and my dear one sits beside me looking at photos of an unbelievable garden in Tennessee. I will expel the Grumpilo, fetch myself a cup of chamomile tea, and edit some poems. I wish I could write intricate, transcendent Indian poetry; perhaps that would send the Grumpilo packing forever. But I am not Indian, I'm just plain old pale me, paler still from the Pennsylvania winter. And I am not Greek, either, though I'd like to be, given the chance.

Martin and I sat in the car after work and as I turned the key, he said, "Maybe we should go for gyros," and I had been thinking the EXACT SAME THING (hurrah), so we drove up to the next city with the girls and a bearded man named Costas fixed us up gyros in a tiny restaurant papered with photos of the Greek Isles. Family members and friends dropped in to chat with his wife, a woman with some weight dressed in a low-cut, red dress, with painted eyelashes and such a warm manner that I wanted to be Greek, too, and slice meat on a spit onto pita bread and compare days with my nieces who dropped by on the way home from work. We are not even a tiny percentage Greek, but Elspeth found out she loves stuffed grape leaves.

This blog has no narrative cohesion, I'm afraid. The Grumpilo may be partly to blame. I just glanced despondently over at Martin's laptop and read "Composting Opportunities!" I may eat a banana tonight, and then I, too, could have a composting opportunity. I can hardly wait.

Hope the ancient and cantankerous Grumpilo stays far away from you all tonight.

Monstas are my fwends

Here's Bea, during a rare trip to Banana Republic, finding friends among the headless. She cozied up to the expressionless but well-dressed man, above, looked up at his neck adoringly and said, "Hi, Uncle Noah!" When we showed the photo to Uncle Noah, he pointed out that he does not wear flannel shirts. I think it's interesting that he commented on the attire of the guy instead of the fact that the guy doesn't have a head. Bea also enjoyed holding the hands of the women, whom she did not name (they're dressed better than I ever am, so no wonder).
Late last night, after viewing an independent film ("The Baxter," so quirky and really fun), Martin and I sat up even later pillow-talking about Bea. Oh, she's a funny kid these days.

She'll be three in a couple weeks, but with two older sisters, she thinks she's bigger than that. She loves her independence, and whether it's redressing herself several times in footie pjs, tearing around outside with the older kids, holding the egg beaters or removing something from a high shelf, she likes to announce, "See. I a grownup." Here she is, confidently tackling the crooked house at the Children's Museum in Pittsburgh, shortly before she went up again by herself and panicked at the top of the tunnel-slide. I had to go and retrieve her and felt nauseous for a while afterward. That crooked house makes me want to barf every time.

Among other things, Bea's been trying to convince herself not to be afraid of monsters. A week ago, my mother and I lingered at the supper table, but Bea was done and ready to retrieve something--probably more footie pyjamas--from upstairs in her room. But it was dim and there was nobody else upstairs.

"You can do it," we told her, and she stamped off with a little swagger, which is her independent walk. We heard her footsteps stop at the bottom of the stairs, and then she came back again.

"There are no monsters in this house," she announced, and thus reassured, she turned around and walked back toward the stairs. Back she came. "I not scared," she said, extending her hand and waving it in the air as if we were concerned. The same thing happened, and she was back again, gesturing at us and glancing off toward the corner of the room. "I a grownup!" she said finally, and then she was off again--this time she bravely made it all the way into the murky upstairs all by herself.

Last night, right before bed, she told Martin, "There are no monsters in this house." She paused and thought about it some more. "Monsters are my fwends," she said, and went on to explain that there were two mommy monsters with baby monsters whom (I guess) live in our house with us, named Cali and Cooloo.

I hope they're not hungry tonight, because I'm just planning enough dinner for five. That's not to say any of you aren't welcome to drop by, assuming you eat a bit less than monsters.

At the Eisenstat's Farm

Bea wasn't too sure about the goat kids, how they wanted to nuzzle, untie shoelaces, and taste buttons. There's our friend Mike Eisenstat, my mom, Bea, and a kid.
My mom and I provided lots of giddy, girly laughter, which just got more shrill when I found that a large butterscotch cat had jumped into the Subaru and trapped herself. She leapt into the closed windows, first to the left, then to the right, until I lifted the hatch and she tore down the dirt driveway like a bat out of hell.
When we went to see the clutch of hens, I kept feeling a phantom goat tugging at the cuff of my jeans. Who knows what psychological damage the cat incurred.

I really could write volumes, but I've already written the story of Toboggan Farm, and you can read it this Sunday in the O-R. Just click on the white geranium at right.

Just last week. . .

There's a soft, fuzzy head tucked under my chin as I type, so I'm not sure how many words I'll be able to share with you today. The owner of the velvet head is tucking two stuffed dogs, a plastic cupcake, and various other things into a purple Kenyan purse. The forsythia on my table has gone wild, a mass of lemon-colored blooms, and the smell of angel food cake baking fills the house. . .if I weren't supposed to be readying the house for a women's luncheon, I'd be perfectly comfortable to sit here in my robe for a few more hours, typing away.

Outside, it looks like February again--gray, flurrying snow, a few black birds flying low and swift over the tops of bristling tree branches.

And it was only last week that our garden felt like a park, with our friends and neighbors congregating in the garden to dig, trim, run and roll in the grass. The girls and their friends rode down the hill in the wagon numerous times, made soup from wild onions, and frolicked like puppies that have been locked in a pen for four months.

Spring. Come back, sun, and bring the tulips. Whoops, angel food cake is possibly burning. . .gotta dash.

A Park in Hanoi, A Book to Read

Once again, here's a letter from my father in Hanoi (I edited it just a bit for brevity). His description of the park reminds me of the picture book I just read to Bea and her friend, E, a wonderful account by Fumiko Takeshita of a white park bench. The illustrations, by Japanese artist Mamoru Suzuki, which depict the park over one day, are charming as well as engrossing. (You can find the book at Alibris and used at Amazon--I highly recommend it).

Here's my Dad's Vietnamese park experience:

I had one of those disjointed moments this afternoon that seem to characterize my life. I had finished early at the office so after dropping things off at the room I walked to the lake near the office, dodging the motorbikes that use the sidewalks during rush hour.

It's probably about half a mile around the lake and there were many making the circuit, joggers, older and younger people, courting couples, kids with their moms or grand moms and the stray motorbike here and there and one very tiny, very nervous, very lost chihuahua dog wearing a home knit sweater. To my right, older men gathered around what resembles a checkerboard but playing a far more complex game. The circle of mostly elderly men squatted or leaned over the two playing the game, freely and enthusiastically offering their advice.

On my second clockwise circuit just before the last turn that took me back to the entrance I passed the most noisy part of the park. About 35 women, mostly young, radiated from an athletic woman leading them in aerobic dancing to loud Vietnamese pop music.

Just beyond them were the small mechanical kid's rides--one little train and a small and very mild whirly gig. The tinny sound track for the rides provided counterpoint to the jazz.

A new track began and to my surprise the tune was familiar. The female vocalist had (what is to my ears) the thin voice that seems traditionally to characterize popular songs in Asia before the advent of MTV. But. . .I had sung to that tune for as long as I can remember.

Sounding out over the lake and the hundreds of people of all ages from elderly kibitzers to the young couple. . .was, in Vietnamese accented English, "Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head." It went through all the verses.

And so somehow on my last evening walk of this trip things come around, confusing East and West, English and Vietnamese, Lent and Christmas.

Love,
Mere
*******

Splendid March

Forsythia, Tulips, Daffodil, Beatrix

Just a little sentimental. . .

Am I sentimental? I don't think so, at least not overly so; I accepted my great-grandmother's bone china tea cups and I have a hard time throwing away anything that bears my mother's handwriting. But I don't frame a lot of photos or hold onto keepsakes forever--I tend to think that a thing that embodies a person is less important than the person her/himself, whom I know is a part of me whether I'm holding something they gave me ten years ago or not.

Now that four people have joined me in life, I am becoming more and more unsentimental. When something breaks, I remind myself that it's just a THING, and one less thing that I have to protect now.

So when Merry broke the heads off my post-pregnancy, new-baby sculpture my sister-in-law gave me long ago, I felt a pang of remorse but I moved on quickly, dropping the heads and then the decapitated figures into the bottom of the trashcan. This graceful woman with her baby perched on her stomach had long perched on the bookcase in Merry's and Elspeth's room, but I didn't think they were particularly attached to it--Merry evidently wasn't, since she unceremoniously yanked a book from underneath the sculpture and showed less than your average sorriness as she recounted how mother and child had lost their noggins. . .which, all in all, was surprising, since she has always been the most sentimental of all the children.

I didn't think again of the sculpture until Elspeth said, "Mommy, I miss that woman with her baby who used to be in our room."

I was surprised that Elspeth cared, but I convinced her that the heads could not be glued back on and we just had to let it go.

The next day, this is what I found:

Poor Elspeth. Better a headless mother and child by her bed than none at all, I guess.

Swifts can sleep while they're flying.
New, wonderful fact.
A baby goat tried to nibble off my button today and a ginger cat got stuck in my car and almost brained herself trying to get out, flinging herself over and over at the backseat windows.
The robins scolded Martin for not going inside when twilight fell; they seemed to think they owned the newly turned earth.
More wonderful things.
(The cat was okay).

Just a little bit of history repeating. . .

Bea seems to have ripped some pages from Elspeth's book.

One morning last week, Mom and I paused in our tea and coffee drinking: Bea had been AWFULLY quiet. . .TOO quiet. We climbed the stairs but we couldn't find Bea until my mother observed, "Your bedside table seems to be rocking back and forth."

I found Bea wedged in the white legs of my rickety table. She had scaled my bookcase to retrieve my make-up, and with the mediums of mascara and lipstick with possible use of permanent marker, she had created a masterpiece: Bride of Frankenstein meets Geisha Girl. She was in disgrace when I snapped these pictures, so I tried to hide my admiration for her particularly original and precise application.

St. Patty's Day Madness at Wazoo

The garden's EN FUEGO!!!

Yesterday was so unbelievably beautiful that we spent almost every minute outside. I finally liberated my spring bulbs from the dry overgrowth that I allow to stay every winter. Laden with snow, the butterfly bushes, which grow to the size of small trees, look magical, and the tangle of Russian Sage appears silvery and delicate on dull, grey mornings. The birds love hiding places and seed heads, and besides, I'm always sick of tending to the garden in the fall.

But it was quintessential spring yesterday, and the poor crocus felt a little sickly and the tulips and daffs were a bit grumpy and felt taken for granted, so I wielded my pruners and liberated them.

The purple crocus, which had been pinched and wizened, found the sun. It threw back its petals and gave a wolf cry from deep within its golden throat. When I stepped back outside after a little break, this is what I found:

I'll give a quick photo tour of the other highlights of our day. . .
. . .My good luck charms--two of them, anyway.

My friend Michelle came for the Irish feast adequately prepared. I give you, the sushi 'o the Irish:

My mother, another lucky charm, peeling the tatties.

My classy tribute to St. Patrick's day (I also tried my feet at a jig):

And a special visit from Kerry O'Malley, who brought us good luck out the wazoo.

Hope your St. Patty's was just as delightful. Happy Friday, all.