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.

Interested in a rabid opossum and the story of its demise? Find it at my Observer-Reporter column by clicking on the geranium to the right.

Elspeth's Monologues

Sunshine today; slant of light on Elspeth's hands, catching the little copper pot on the dining room table, making it a tiny deposit of summer, bright, gleaming. The girls are playing with new birthday presents: wooden cookies, a pink tea set. There's a bit of a battle raging between the two oldest, who are spreading and organizing perfectly with an eye for precision, and the youngest, who is grabbing all she can, stashing it, trying to share as well but failing, resorting to petty violence, such as whacking her older sister with a wooden lollipop. Martin's unloading the dishwasher and listening to the Car-Talk Brothers, and we are all full of french toast and caffeine and feeling fine despite the columns I have to write/collect information for before leaving for Seattle next week; the sporadic squabbling of the girls; and our varying states of physical unreadiness for the day.

I would like now, fine readers, to enrich your lives with a spot of nonsense, or rather, a storm of nonsense, which was imparted to the small Wazoo world last week by way of Elspeth's mouth as she sat at lunch table. I regret that I only began recording her monologue after she'd been going for a while, but at least I got this--let me set the stage--Elspeth sits across from me, and she's talking to everyone and no-one, and verbalizing this list, for unknown reasons, unless it was just for the joy of saying everything that came into her colorful, candy-like brain:

"Lamp-posters, little monkey tail, a little piglet, a pen with writing, a noodle poster, a washcloth, a tin can, spaghetti and cheese, nose posters, polar bear ears, a hairy, hairy head, an elephant trunk, top of a lamp, a fan, a lamp, a little person's head--"

[at this point she broke into song:] "A boy is made out of nails and yucky stuff! A girl is made out of lovely stuff, like polkadot tails and--" [she narrows her eyes pouts her lips, drops her voice to guttural growl:] "A ROCK STAR!"

[She continues in falsetto:] "How did you ever learn how to use thunder? How about a looky-looker? Where do noodles learn to dance? WHO? Knock-knock door? I definitely forgot about the witch. Haven't you seen the monkey swinging with no tail on? Yes, and how did YOU learn to dance? Anyway, I'm going to give that to a love-wench."

We transitioned here, possibly to nap-time, otherwise the rapid-fire monologue might have continued. And here, dear ones, in the sunshine, the intermittent screams of tension and purrs of contentment, in my Smart-Wool socks and my syrup smells, I leave you. Happy Saturday.

Lovely Gleaming Bit 'O Magic

The more I write, the more I realize how very narrow and well-trod are the paths through my brain.

Last year, I heard a sixth-grader give a report on writing; one of the steps to good writing, he said, was to make a list of your "go-to" words and forbid yourself from using them. There are words that I use as often as I wear my ratty, long, balled sweater in the house; there are images I turn to easily, as I'd turn to one of my children. . .yeah, yeah, there's always the bird, feathers bright against snow/feather bright as blood/etc. image. The gleam of wood/hair/etc. under lamplight. "Gleam" is a favorite word for me these days. It tastes good on my tongue and makes me warm, too, like tea. . .maybe it's a winter word.

Then there are the words I use about a thousand times a day in correspondence and conversation. Lovely is at the top of my list. Fabulous, wonderful. "Brilliant," not quite so bad. A "Jolly" once and a while.

It's absolutely (oh, I use that a lot, too, absolutely, absolutely I do) painful to listen to the recordings of my interviews for the paper, because I have to listen to my own grating voice saying, "That's great," and "Oh, that's so nice," about twenty times every few minutes. I sound like a bumbling idiot, usually because I'm trying to jot down notes as the subject is speaking. Still, it's a terribly (oh, that one too) humbling experience.

Are signature/overused words okay, do you think, in common speech and repartee? Are they like comfortable clothes, after all, or a familiar scent, or do they just stink after a while, like a mouse in your pocket?

Just got good news: one of my poems, Geometry, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and will appear along with two other poems in the upcoming issue of Lamplighter Review. Special thanks to my fabulous in-house editor, Martin B. Cockroft the Magnificent, who pushes me to spare language, simplicity, and good form.

Do heffalumps and woozles like honey?
Well, do they? Elspeth just climbed up on my lap and asked me this.
It's snowing.

One hour later:
Elspeth reached up to hug me tonight and sighed, Mommy. I like you with a pinch of salt.

Naming Things

At nap time today, I was reading Bea a book by Sandra Boynton where the speaker introduces all his pets--they're all named Bob, except for his turtle, who has a long, fancy name in curly script. Elspeth, who was gathering up her books on my bed, overheard me singing the book out loud and swaggered into Bea's room, singing her own version of the text:

"I've got an eyeball named Bob, and a head named Bob, and a shirt named Bob, and a dirty sock named Bob!" Bea broke into giggles and Elspeth, fueled by the approval, continued throughout Bea's room, picking items up and naming them all Bob, shaking her hips and popping her eyeballs in mock astonishment for effect.

And then, right before I put Bea in bed, Elspeth ran down the hallway, calling, "Who wants sanitizer for breakfast?"

I love this craziness, this sense of humor of hers based in total randomness. The other day she threw up her hands and said, "Oh, my Clara! I mean, it's impossible!" Absolute nonsense. And to me, probably because I'm her adoring mother but also because I get the biggest kick out of misnamed things, misplaced words, strange, erratic shouts, and things that go "Kablam! Piddle! Pop!" in the midst of a chaotic room--I think it shows the flashes of brilliance that I want to wrap up in several scarves made of macaroni and push, by their bumpy shoulders, into my stories and poems and conversations. Like a prince who turns into a frog. Or a witch who lives in a house made of candy. Or something brand new, like a dirty sock named Bob.

Wait for it. . .

Our band's last gig at the Harvest Festival, photo courtesy B. Randolph
Martin'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.

Peaceful Family Outing

A woman with a beautifully dark complexion and a thick mass of hair that hangs down past the ties of her green apron just came and cleared my table. "Got left with the dishes," she commented.

"That is a GOOD deal," I said. "Left with the dishes but no kids. I'll take that ANY day."

I stood up and tried to help her load up the black tray and succeeded in tipping over plastic cups and wadding a bunch of white napkins in one fist. "We had a bit of an incident with the hot chocolate," I explained. (Was I twitching? Was my eyelid fluttering uncontrollably?)

"That's what a mop is for," she replied, waiting as I fumbled with more dishes. Finally she said, as I swiped at a storm of crumbs all over the table, "And we have cloths to mop off the tables, too."

Now the woman is wiping off the rack of gift cards by the check-out, her hair lustrous under the recessed lighting--and I realize that she's pregnant, close to her due date. Is it her first child? Heh, heh. Life is about to change forever, lady.

Another couple just came in with a baby strapped in a car seat--the man, an older guy with trendy glasses and hiking boots, just paused from working on his Blackberry to tuck in a striped green, white, and blue blanket back into the seat. His wife, also working on a Blackberry, speaks low in German. Goopy, spineless, relaxing music--high female voices singing indecipherable but probably Christmassy lyrics-- spread over us all like a vague blessing. . .the man utters a long stream of oogie-boogie--ahs and unearths his son, a surprisingly chunky kid, suited up in shades of blue, from the depths of the blanket. Now, over the loudspeaker, there's a disturbingly operatic cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah.

Just a few minutes ago, this corner of the box bookstore up on a hill just over the PA border in West Virginia was a blur of hands waving soup spoons, smashed bagel pieces, crushed green straws, and an arc of hot chocolate that spattered two out of five family members--Bea had already speckled her white turtleneck with chocolate and Elspeth, who dropped the cup, missed the fountain entirely.

It was shortly after the chaos that Martin offered to take the girls to the children's section and the woman with the gleaming hair came and saved our table from its sad state.

And there you have it. Just another peaceful family outing. And still the Christmas music streams on--now a 1950's beat, a perky female voice, and lyrics that include: bells, ring out, Christmas every day.

It's a magical time, all in all.

Now Italian, a duet of two of the world's most full-throated tenors.

PIE

I just had a happy thought: Pie! Pumpkin and pecan, rummy whipped cream, in glittering foil south of the milk jug.

We carried home this treasure from our Thanksgiving home up on a ridge. This friendly fellow, J, roasted a turkey covered in fat-back. Oh, my. Can the spits of heaven hold anything more succulent?

I just chatted with my brother-in-law and their turkey, when they cut into it, spurted blood and was still partially frozen. Though I missed family this holiday, I am rumly satisfied to think that I ate the far superior bird. (Thank you, J, T, and kids, for a lovely feast!)

Martin and I have spent this guest-less holiday writing in the evenings. "An hour and a half!" he said tonight, and we sat down with our laptops and fell to. I feel as though I should be working on another short story or my article for the paper, but I've been swimming through the warm waters of poetry instead. Perhaps it's the changing weather--instead of knitting I'm turning to the tight link of words, though they haven't been particularly warm nor cuddly--mostly just strange.

But there's nothing strange about pie and I'm just waiting for Martin to give up so we can shake off the silence and eat.

I give thanks for Ogden Nash, my old friends, my father, etc.

I'd like to thank my father for reading Ogden Nash to me. At least I remember his boyish face, his eyes alive with the impending mirth, the expectation that Nash would bend us double with laughter. When I actually read Nash poems, I wonder if my memory is correct: "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker" is one observation I don't think my father ever shared with us as he sat on the edge of my bed. And I was a young adult when I read about the clever turtle being so fertile, and I was older still--just turning NOW, as a matter of fact, when I found the gentle account of Miranda turning thirty: "How old is spring?" the poem finishes. And it was only last winter that Martin gave a splitting reading of that fabulous fable, "The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus."

But I am not giving a shout-out to Ogden, but to my father. Actually, scratch that. WHAT HO, OGDEN! YOU ROCK! It's not every man who can write a two line poem about a cow that makes me laugh out loud. Make yourself thankful for belly laughs this year and go read some zappy shorts. Please, I beg you, do not skip the one on parsley.

Leave dear Ogden for a minute, jollyish reader, and return to my white-haired, bushy-eyebrowed, laughs-through-his-nose father. He read to us for hours when we were children, mastering voices and even singing when called on by the text, though his singing voice sounds like Winnie the Pooh's. He read us everything from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, (where I first heard about menstruation) to the entire Lord of the Rings series, which we stretched out over our interminable summer car rides when we were on leave from Kenya. Go back further than that and I have my father's voice calling out the islands of Maine in Robert McCloskey's Time of Wonder --his voice is imprinted so strongly on those words that I still cry every time I read it to my own children.

My father travelled quite a lot, and I remember the smell of his suitcase as he unzipped the old, fake leather and threw it open. Nestled among his socks and toothbrush were small gifts for us. If he'd been back to America, the open suitcase smelled like ziplock bags and drugstores and my grandmama's house in Pennsylvania. If he'd been to Thailand or Dacca, the suitcase was damp with humidity and smelled of sweat, dust, and spices.

I just chatted with my mother on the phone as she floated across the Puget Sound to join my sister and her family and my brother for Thanksgiving. Here I am, sitting at a table covered with my mother's old blue tablecloth, spun in India; the white stripes in the cloth start at Martin, who works at the other end of the table, and flow all the way across to me. Silver sage from our garden dries among candles; there's a painted leaf Merry brought home from school and a paper with an upside down heart and the word MOM that Elspeth presented to me this afternoon. A box of Kleenex (Bea has a cold), the roar of the heater, lamplight glowing on our mantle clock. The sounds of my father's voice deep down inside of me, my mother's laugh fresh in my ears. I give thanks for all of it, for the glitter and drop and water-flow of so many stories, for the way they fill me with color.