Redblur Ramblings

Learning to Fly, On Two Wheels

2010-09-24T12:18:00.002-06:00

When I crashed the motorcycle, I crashed more than a Suzuki 250. Thanks to integrated crash bars, and the fact that I was going under 30 mph and making a left turn, I wasn’t really injured. I had a small bruise on my right upper arm from where the handlebar bumped me. My left arm and shoulder were sore and jarred because I gripped the handgrip so tight and forgot to let go, once I realized I was about to go down. I managed to keep my right leg clear from under the bike, and the riding coach was close enough to hit the engine kill switch that, in my confusion, I was unable to remember. He helped me right the bike, and told me to get back on and get going.
So, for awhile, I did.

I knew learning to ride was a stretch. I’m closer to 50 than 40. Thanks to some old injuries, including a 12 foot fall from a tree six years ago, I have damage to my neck and back that is not getting better with time. After a minor twisting fall last September on our wedding anniversary, I’ve spent most of 2010 in physical therapy, taking steroids and having spinal blocks on my neck to keep my discs unbulging, and a veritable alphabet soup of painful and debilitating conditions at bay. On my worst days, upright mobility was a stretch. On my best days, I was walking and moving fairly normally. Maybe taking this class really was a bad idea after all.

When I realized I couldn’t feel a thing in my left hand, and I was having to look at the clutch to see if my fingers were actually moving when I thought I was shifting gears, I knew it was time to quit. The rider coach was shouting at me to shift up and go faster. Instead, I pulled over, hit the kill switch and fumbled with the latch of my helmet. He strode up in the no-nonsense way that only a former Navy Senior Chief can do and started yelling at me. I looked at him, flipped up my face screen and said, “No way, Senior Chief. This isn’t my bag.”

I don’t know what surprised him more: that I’d figured out his former rank or that I was giving up. I parked the bike out the way, collected my stuff, shrugged and headed to the car. It wasn’t until I got there that I let the tears come down. It really did stink to give up. I hate giving up and admitting I can’t do something. Accepting the limitations of an aging and battered body is becoming a more frequent challenge. It hurts to look at myself as getting older. Hell, it hurts to fall off motorcycles.

So, I went home, where I found a surprised Norwegian. He consoled me for my hurts, but praised me for trying in the first place, and also for knowing when to cut my losses. We traded our beloved rooster to some farmers. We had lunch. We delivered Dear Daughter from one activity to another. We sat on the couch with the dogs and watched the light rain turn into sunshine.

Then, we drove to the Vespa dealership.

Vernal Equinox

2010-09-22T20:08:00.006-06:00

Alas, my poor starveling little blog...it looks a lot like my garden this time of year. Both are shriveled and withered, neglected and wasted. Not that I don't think about them both a great deal of the time. Despite my best intentions, I've allowed a great deal of time to come between this post and the previous one.

And for that, dear reader (for I see, I still have one follower), I am heartily ashamed. You see, in my heart, I still think of myself as a writer. But how can I be a writer, if I don't make the time to write? And if I am truly a writer, what could be more important than writing?

But good grief, has it really been nine months? I could have produced an entire human being in this interval, much less an occasional blog post.

Motivation, or lack thereof, has been a recurring theme in my world this past year. It's lacking in most areas of my life these days. I stay busy--there's always plenty to do, and I have good ideas--but I'm not much on following through anymore. I'm not sure if it has to do with my age, the pressures of our sandwich years, work, a combination neck and back injury last year, the possible progression of a chronic illness or what, but I'm slipping, folks, and it's not a good feeling.

Recently, in an attempt to kick-start (literally) my life, I took a class. While some women my age are picking up scrapbooking or golf or oeneology, I took a motorcycle driving course. I'd reached the do-or-die point where, having never even been ON a motorcycle, it was simply time to try. So I paid my money and I took my chances one warmish Saturday afternoon. The classroom portion was easy. The driving portion, mmm, not so much. My chronic neck injury crap has damaged the nerves in my left arm and hand enough that riding the clutch on a motorcycle isn't exactly safe for me. I rode for about an hour, trying to fake my way through, covering the fact that shifting gears was not just hard for me, but not really possible. It was about an hour after surviving my first crash (blessedly minor) that I gave it up, and helmet in hands, went home to contemplate my next move.

Which, three hours later, turned out to be go out and buy a scooter with an automatic transmission.

(next post...learning to fly--on two wheels)

For unto a child is born...

2009-12-17T08:50:00.002-06:00

What I would like to say about Christmas, but Melissa already did it so well. Enjoy. And yes, it is a few days early, but Merry Christmas.

Beautiful Day for a Birthday

2009-12-05T15:14:00.001-06:00

Today would have been my mother's 75th birthday. Somehow I think spending it in heaven might be even better than spending it here, even though the sun is shining brilliantly. Happy birthday, mom.

The Truth About Santa Claus

2009-12-03T10:00:00.006-06:00

My nearest sister called me yesterday with some tragic news: her youngest daughter, who is not quite 10, found out the day before that Santa Claus is not real. Or as her newly-enlightened classmate who told her put it, "your parents have been lying to you all this time."

My niece is the youngest member of our collective family, so this sad milestone is particularly grievous, as it is the stark demarcation between childhood and the Real World. This marks the moment in time when all her childhood beliefs and fantasies will come into question under the harsh light of reality and be found wanting. Innocence is set aside and is replaced with sly knowing and a gradual forgetting of that in childhood that is sweet and accepting. As Abby passes through this portal, the generational shift moves perceptibly further down the line. Her newfound knowledge reminds me of my own aging, my own loss of childhood joy, my own crumbling mortality.

The year she turned five, Dear Daughter turned to me while we were decorating our scraggly artificial Christmas tree. It was still just the two of us, living in a small apartment with our little bird and our hopes and dreams. "Mom," she said. "Are you lying to me about all of this Santa Claus stuff? Because if it's not true, I don't want to have a tree or presents or Christmas or anything."

My heart sank to my shoes. Who could have been so mean-spirited as to cast the shadow of doubt in the heart and mind of my sweet, trusting little girl, and at such an early age. I pulled her to the couch and we sat and looked at our tree with its polyglot of ornaments--pine cones rolled in glue and glitter, cut-foam figures coated in buttons and marker, a construction paper reindeer with a preschool photo glued to its flank, and assorted strings of beads and lights. We talked about Christmas--the infant Jesus in the manger, the gift of a loving God. We talked about Advent--the candles, the waiting, the time of examining ourselves. We talked about St. Nicholas of Myra and his care for children and how he came to be the figure we know as Santa Claus.

I told her that Santa is most certainly real. That even if there isn't really a man in a red suit with flying reindeer and sleigh, he is real in the love that makes the miracles of Christmas happen. Santa is real in the excitement and preparation that surrounds the season. Santa is real in the love that we share when we give and receive gifts. Santa is another reminder of the love we are given from God through the baby Jesus. Even though we choose to portray him as a portly old man with a smoking habit and questionable fashion sense, he really looks like love.

Dear Daughter was satisfied with this explanation, and even years later her own eyes were opened by an older cousin, it wasn't a traumatic moment, because she'd already rationalized it in her own mind. Santa still pays his yearly visit to Dachshund Downs, and she's every bit as delighted at 14 by the magic and sweetness as she was at four. I'm sorry to hear that my niece is upset about finding out the "truth," but I know she'll be all right. Santa will still come to her as well, because Santa is love. Santa is magic. Santa is real.

Resurfacing, or I haven't been there for the longest time

2009-11-24T15:33:00.003-06:00

Hi, um, it's me again. I know I've been away awhile. I've missed being here. I've missed a lot of things, actually. For the past six months I truly feel like I've been floating inches below the surface of a murky pond. I could sort of see what's been going on above the surface, but not quite. The world kept turning after my last post, but I haven't truly been an active participant--I think "passenger" describes it much better. I don't know who's been driving the bus lately, but it surely hasn't been me.

At least not the me I mean to be.

I knew losing my mother would be hard, but I never dreamed it would be this catastrophic. I thought I would handle it better than this. I was wrong. I was so wrong.

I've had some very good days. I've even had what-passes-for-normal days. But the bad days have been beyond my wildest nightmares.

I'm better now. I hope that's going to last. It's two days before Thanksgiving and, thanks to a combination of a stupid not-quite-fall on our wedding anniversary in late September and a few even more old stupid accidents (what, indeed WAS I doing 12 feet up in a tree in 2004?), I'm entering week nine of treatment for spinal stenosis, spondylosis and a host of other unpronounceable neck and back issues that have left me so weak, exhausted and irritated that I can't safely lift anything more substantial than a spatula.

Still, we're going to have a happy and bountiful Thanksgiving surrounded by dear people and good food. I am thankful for so much this year: my dear husband, who has stuck by me when I surely wasn't any fun to be around; my precious daughter, who brings light, beauty and joy into my life every day; for my friends JenEMac, MelBoe, NavyK8t, MarciaMarciaMarcia, Annette, MelanieS, JenEstes, Cindy and so many more who were just there; for good memories; for the passing of time; that mother didn't linger...

I'm thankful that God has given me the kick in the rear end that I not just needed, but so richly deserved. And even more thankful that He is raising me up slowly enough that I can fully appreciate the scenery on the way back to myself.

I'm almost there. Bear with me just awhile longer. I'm thankful for you, too.

The End of the Journey

2009-06-05T19:54:00.003-06:00

Mom died today. She had been living with us for three weeks. She was hospitalized twice for sepsis in April, and during the second stay they discovered four new tumours. She immediately requested hospice. We kept her in her home until the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, then moved her in with us at Dachshund Downs. This afternoon, she simply stopped breathing.

I don't have the words just yet to describe what caring for her has been like, or why it should matter to you too that she is gone. All I know right now is that my mother is gone and that's a void that can never be filled.

Golden Day

2008-11-05T20:42:00.003-06:00

It's a very special day today, and the sun came up and was warm and sweet where I live. The trees are changing color, and the hickory trees and tulip poplars are a particularly rich and beautiful shade of gold right now. My morning commute involves a drive through the country just north of our city to the inland Navy base where the Norwegian and I both earn our daily bread. In the mornings and afternoons, the sun is at the precise angle to light the treetops. The entire woods look burnished and bright. It's breathtaking. We've been watching the deer, fearless in that area, step out into the open fields on the edges of the base. There's one small group, a few does and their young fawns, led by a regal buck with a nice eight to ten point rack, that we've seen a couple of days in a row now. I think they must know there's no hunting allowed on the base, and that even in the afternoon during the exodus past the south gate, they can feed in safety and peace.

On this day, fifty years ago, in a small town in north Alabama, my dad married my mom. They met at her workplace. He was a switchboard equipment installer for Western Electric, and the cotton company she worked for needed a telephone upgrade. My mom noticed him pretty early on in the job, and made excuses to frequent the ladies' room so she would have to walk repeatedly past the place he was working. One thing led to another, and they finally married at a little Episcopal church with red doors on Gordon Street. Everyone laughed about that last part, since that was my dad's first name.

Life and Western Electric took them all over the south. The first five years they were married they moved more than 30 times, in a tiny Airstream trailer--the littlest one they made. Dad had a penchant for big old Buicks, so at least they had a sturdy vehicle to pull their little home behind them. Year one brought Gordon, Jr., who left them almost as soon as he arrived. The near three years brought them my two sisters. I arrived six weeks before the assassination of President Kennedy. Our brothers arrived in odd-numbered years as well.

We stayed in the same city after 1963 and all of us grew up there. We had a backyard garden. Dad stayed with Western. We went to grade school and beyond, the Army, the Navy, and so forth.

It wasn't always easy between them. It wasn't always peaceful. The 1970s were rough on a lot of people and while we weren't devastated, neither were we entirely spared. The 1980s brought greater change--retirements and graduations; the 1990s brought grandchildren and war. And still they soldiered on.

I don't know what it takes to be married for fifty years. I look at the Norwegian and wonder what we'll be like at that milestone--he'll be 101 and I'll be 94 and 7/8s. I hope we'll be the complete embarrassment of the retirement home--still sneaking kisses and holding hands.

Dad died two years ago, suddenly, awfully. Mom was done with her treatment for lung cancer, but unfortunately, lung cancer wasn't done with her. Her third brain tumor left her in September with an esophagus so constricted she can neither eat nor drink. She has a feeding tube in her stomach now that she pours a concoction of nutrition that smells awfully like Carnation evaporated milk into six times a day. Her adrenal glands are both covered in tumors that have metastasized from her lungs. Today though, we took her flowers and a card covered in gold. It was so small a gesture to offer for 50 years of hope and love and tears and joy. This wasn't the golden anniversary we expected, but life isn't always what we ask for. The best we can do is to live and love.

Election Day At Last

2008-11-04T18:57:00.003-06:00

Hello friends. If you're reading this within the confines of the 50 United States, then for you, as well as for me, it's election day.

Finally.

We've come a long way, baby, from the early primaries in New Hampshire 20 months ago, to the major party conventions this summer. We've learned more than we ever cared to know about the personal lives, financial condition, voting records, favorite colors, religious proclivities and bad habits of all of the candidates, and their family members as well. We've come to question knuckle bumping as a possible terrorist gesture. We've learned to equate visiting a National Guard armory as foreign policy. We've (hopefully) learned to be more careful about judging others by standards we might not so much wished to be judged ourselves.

There's a lot at stake today, both nationally and locally. If you voted today (and my fondest hope is that you did), then you probably were greeted with a number of referenda germane to your particular locale, and perhaps some Congressional candidates as well. I wouldn't presume to suggest you vote for a particular party or candidate, but I do pray that you found candidates in all areas, and positions on all issues that you could, with good conscience pull a lever, touch the screen, poke the chad or otherwise let "x" mark the spot.

Tomorrow, God willing, the sun will come up regardless of the outcomes, but let us dearly hope that whoever wakes up happy tomorrow also wakes up resolved to occupy his or her respective office with dignity, grace, fairness and compassion. We all deserve to be heard. This land is my land, but just as surely, this land is also your land.

Women of Note

2008-11-03T21:17:00.003-06:00

Today is the birthday of Marcia, marcia, marcia. She's a strong, gorgeous woman and we're trying to encourage her to write more often. She also makes a marvelous marciarita.

I just watched a good bit of "The Devil Wears Prada" with Dear Daughter and the Norwegian's daughter. We laughed at the notion that a size 10 is the new 14. What a hoot. It's an hysterical movie although I must confess to loving the shoes, none of which I could ever wear.

And another thing...

2008-11-02T17:31:00.001-06:00

A big happy birthday shout out to young Amicus, the number one son at Fine Old Famly. Twelve is a very good year. Enjoy every moment of it!

Facing up to Facebook

2008-11-02T17:12:00.006-06:00

So, here it is, day two of NaBloPoMo, and amazingly, I'm writing my second post in a row. Okay, my second post in a row for quite a long time. NaBloPoMo is a kind and user-friendly group that encourages creative writing through blogging, by offering advice, support and incentive to bloggers to commit to daily postings for 30 consecutive days in November. Believe me, I WANT to post everyday. I have plenty to post about, and given that blogging is so much cheaper and convenient than therapy, you'd think that I'd be running off at the ...um...fingertips with postings.

I have a deep, dark confession to make. The real reason I have fallen off on blogging is that I've been cheating on my blog with this little hussy. Yes, I can now admit that I've fallen into the clutches of an Internet social networking site. Oh, it started innocently enough--a funny "status" comment here, a peek at a friend's photo album there. I'd check my page in the morning and then again when I got home from work. Every day I added another friend or two--always someone I already knew and either worked with or had social dealings with. Some of my friends were even children of my friends. We all were gradually sucked into the vortex.

Next I found myself surreptitiously checking my page at work. Quickly, and only when I was done with a project or having a short break from the intense and important work of shuffling paper from one beaureaucratic desk to another, I'd bring up my page, and feed my "virtual pet" (as if I don't have enough real ones) or add a plant to my "virtual" green plot (while worrying about how my victory garden was going to get weeded this week.

I started checking my "friends" lists of friends to see who they knew that I might know. I started searching for people from my past--co-workers, classmates, cheating dirty dog ex-boyfriends who by all rights should be in jail or under an NFL stadium end-zone. This simple little tool became a means of checking out people without having to actually deal with them and scope out the lives of those I was better off without in the first place.

Like any other addiction, weaning myself from this black hole of a website has been a challenge. I tell myself "if I check my page before going to work, then I promise I won't even peep once during work." Of course then a message will pop up in my E-mail in-box telling me about a comment or photo post one of my friends has made, and the urge to go check it out is overwhelming. Like the siren song of a coffee pot when you've already had your limit for the morning, these maddening little reminders that someone you know is also online tease and tickle your attention.

I'm getting better though, really. I'm learning to save most of my Facebook checking and posting for the weekend. It really is inconvenient to try and post things during the day. The time I spend on Facebook is time I could spend cooking, helping Dear Daughter with homework, sorting clutter, snuggling with the Norwegian, hugging a bunny or even blogging. I guess it all comes down to remembering that those things that are really important to me are the ones most deserving of my time. And that probably doesn't include a page that takes and takes, and gives only little soundbites in return.

Saints and Sanity

2008-11-01T20:46:00.003-06:00

Hello again, from long ago. It's the first day of November, which is not only the feast of All Saints, but also the first day of NaBloPoMo. The former is a collective day to reflect upon all those who served God well and who now rest in glory (but who don't have their own special designated day of remembrance), while the latter is an initiative for bloggers to strive to post at least once per day for 30 consecutive days. Given my recent track record, I can say it's going to be a challenge to pick up that gauntlet, but I'm surely going to give it a try. For today, at least, I'm back.

I've always loved All Saints--the idea of honoring all saints, and the happy music that accompanies this particular low feast. I love the hope and optimism that even someone like me can actually be a good servant and answer the call. I'm still a work in progress. Tomorrow, the children of our parish will come to church costumed as various saints and people from the Bible and join in the opening processional as a reminder that saints do indeed still walk among us.

We've had an interesting couple of weeks filled with great joy and some real sadness and tragedy. Life does that to us. We are lifted up and then brought low. Today the sun was shining and we shared some good times with good people. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I am fairly certain I will be here to write about it. Good night, all.

I've Been Busy, Seriously

2008-10-05T17:25:00.003-06:00

I promise to write a proper post soon, but in the meantime, who wants to see wedding pictures? The Norwegian and I finally tied the knot good and proper on 27 September. Now we're just busy living happily ever after...

We're still waiting on the proper pix from the photographer, but in the meantime, here are a few taken the morning of the wedding and just after the ceremony.

Me and him...wow.

Dear Daughter.

The cake that nearly killed us all.

Dear Daughter of the Norwegian.

The beautifully decorated trellis on
our side porch, where we held the ceremony.

Who Put These...Snakes on my...Driveway?

2008-09-20T13:03:00.003-06:00

I won't include the universal adjectives that make this paraphrased quote from a notable movie starring Samuel L. Jackson so memorable, but I think you get the message.

Today is seven days before our wedding. Our home wedding. Our OUTDOOR wedding at home. In the yard. I'm in the kitchen making 300 grissini, chocolate classic buttercream frosting to frost the groom's cake I just assembled, and I've got a pot of homemade tomato basil soup on the stove just in case anyone should want. The Norwegian is off playing golf. Miss Baby is layering double chocolate cake with raspberry preserves. The dog is at the door staring at the driveway and whining.

Miss Baby took her out and suggested I come outside and see the snake. I'm thinking grass snake. Ha. That would be easy.

The neighbor's brother, a naturalist, came and caught it in a trash can for us. It's still out there and I'll upload pictures later, but please tell me how I can host 75 people at my house next Saturday if there's a nest of COPPERHEAD SNAKES somewhere in the yard????

Just this morning at the Farmer's Market I ran into an old friend from school and she remarked how calm and collected I am considering my wedding is in seven days. I recounted the tasks I'm trying to finish up and she laughed out loud at me. I do still have to bake the wedding cake and decorate it, hem my daughter's slip, teach Sunday school tomorrow, bake 300 grissini, mold fondant decorations for the groom's cake, make about 35 gallons of variously flavored buttercream frosting and iron all of the cloth napkins in the free world. But I really do have have it all under control.

Until now. Snakes in the yard. If anything could turn me into Bridezilla, this would truly be it. I bet Martha Stewart never had to plan a wedding with reptiles in the yard.

I Know He Had to Pick Someone

2008-08-24T19:26:00.000-06:00

...but Joe Biden? JOE? BIDEN?

Good grief. God help us all.

Recent Stuff

2008-08-21T14:33:00.009-06:00

The past month has been full of all kinds of exciting things. We went to New Orleans twice in July--once to drop Miss Baby off for art camp, and then once again to pick her up. The Junior Norwegian was with us by the time we went the second trip. Since he'd never been to New Orleans, he had an adventure. He trekked through the French Quarter with his dad to see the wonderful D-Day Museum and the Aquarium of the Americas, while Miss Baby, my sister and I went to Crabby Jack's and had this:

If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life, Crabby Jack's roasted duck po boy would definitely be a contender. Miss Baby ALWAYS opts for the catfish, but I also love the half'n'half (half oyster and half shrimp). Pour on the Louisiana Red hot sauce and stand back peoples. Crabby Jack's is small, hot and crowded, but so worth it. The photo above represents HALF of what you get for $9. You couldn't buy that much duck to roast for sandwiches for nine bucks, much less the crusty bread and dressings. I believe a fully dressed and wrapped sandwich could be used as a weapon, much like a Louisville Slugger. And in New Orleans, sometimes that is a good thing.

Baby Britta is now teenager Britta, and that means we finally had to make the decision to have her altered. This was not an easy task, since she is truly a terrific little dog and would have beautiful and smart puppies. However, an excellent personality is not always a guarantee that a dog will be a good mother, and we do think there are enough animals in the world who need good homes without us operating as amateur breeders. The Norwegian made the appointment and took her to the vet, where she was pampered and loved. Two weeks later, she's doing fine and has regained the weight she lost. Saturday she basked regally in the sun on the side porch with her dad.

Somewhere about that same time (early August), Miss Baby had a most eventful orthodontist appointment. After being in the chair for about an hour, she went downstairs to the parking lot and completely tanked. She swears she didn't really pass out, but the Norwegian had to fireman-carry her limp, unconscious self back upstairs for a mop-up of her bloody knees.

By the time they got home, she was bleeding again. I took her on a circuitous tour around town, in an un-air-conditioned Subaru in 100 degree heat (while wearing panty hose, no less), of some of the nicer minor medical clinics, one of which didn't accept our health insurance and the other which had closed mysteriously. We finally ended up at a hospital emergency room 15 miles from home (did I mention we live two miles from an excellent teaching hospital?) where she took seven stitches in her right knee. There was some high drama for a few days surrounding pain, itching and the general novelty of having black thread in your kneecap, but she healed up pretty nicely, and even removed her own stitches in the bathroom, much to my combined relief and disgust. Plus, showing up on the first day of seventh grade with a gaping wound apparently earns you all kinds of kid-cred.

Wedding Sweatshop, part 1

2008-08-20T21:00:00.011-06:00

I'm getting married in 37 days. It's only taken me fourteen years, countless miles, more bad dates than I care to think about and just a few sleepless nights to get to this point. Some people do marriage the easy way--they find someone wonderful at a young age, get married, have some nice children and live comparatively happily ever after.

I actually tried this route, twice, with Bad Mistake Number One and Bad Mistake Number Two. Without going into a great amount of detail, let's just say I got the worst of my life's crises out of the way while I was still young and healthy enough to withstand them.

So now, at the ripe old age of forty-mumble-something, I'm getting married in 37 days. The Norwegian tells me he loves me, he tells me I'm beautiful and that I'm a good mother, he tells me he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I'm awed and humbled and excited and amazed at all of this, but in the sweet way that he has, he doesn't just say these things, but helps me to believe them about myself as well. There's so much to love about this man, but I guess to sum it all up would be to say he's just himself, and that is so wonderful.

Planning a wedding at this age is completely different from planning a wedding at an earlier age. Having been down this ahem, aisle before, I'm not only older, but I've learned a few things along the way. Not that there haven't been the giddy moments of bride-like excitement and anticipation, but for the most part, this has been a dream-time of thinking small, looking deep within ourselves and finding what we really want--from life, from marriage and from this one celebratory day as well.

And this is how it really should be.

We're getting married at the best possible place--home. Several reasons--the desire to keep the festivities small and intimate and health and mobility issues of various family members -- played a key role in this decision. In fact, our house-hunting centered as much around "could we have the wedding we want in this house?" as did "could we finish raising our two teenagers in this house?" We found the perfect place in our half-acre of greenspace. The house has been duly blessed by our parish priest and is now a fit place, even in the eyes of the church, to start our life together.

Keeping it small means doing a lot of things ourselves, but that's okay. A lot of the websites and magazines ground out by the behemoth wedding industry devote a great deal of time and space to wedding budgets. There are even charts to advise what "average" weddings generally cost in a given zip code. For instance, the "average" wedding in our zip code of midtown Memphis, Tennessee suggests we should be spending roughly the cost of brand new SUV to tie our particular knot. Thank goodness this wedding will be anything but "average." The Norwegian and I are, admittedly, unusual people, and naturally, our wedding will combine our religious and family traditions, but on a scale manageable enough to keep it enjoyable for everyone involved. And that certainly includes us, first and foremost.

Once we decided on a budget, we immediately began looking for ways to come in lower. This has become something of a game almost, as we delight in great finds at estate sales and thrift stores and continue to come up with accoutrements that are just the right thing. This entire experience has been a great pre-marital exercise for us both, as we have the opportunity to examine closely what truly matters to us individually (him--family traditions and Navy heritage; me -- comfortable shoes and a taste of vintage) and as a couple (all of the above, along with a good photographer and a caterer who understands us). It's been so easy to agree on just about everything--from old Blue Willow serving pieces, to the vintage lace dress for Dear Daughter found at a yard sale, to the quasi-Mediterranean menu Elio the magnificent has planned for us. Along the way, we've ditched everyday wedding expectations (cheesy favors, garter tossing and flower girls) for homemade cakes and candies, a wonderful Gipsy jazz quartet and his family's heirloom wedding solje.

We designed our own save-the-date cards and invitations, using the great Alfred Eisenstaedt V-J day photo, and printed them on the Mac'n'Smac. Here they are, drying on our dining room table. The joy and exuberance captured in this photo illustrates perfectly how we feel about one another and our family, and was the perfect image for the invitations.

Friends and family are helping out with decorations. Here, MelBoe and Dear Daughter try out combinations of colored tulle for swathing our side porch. We're draping our leprous old wrought iron railing in the equivalent of two football fields of six-inch tulle. It really makes a difference!

Dear Daughter has started helping me make candies for the reception. Last night we dipped the first batches of about 300 creme de menthe chocolates.

A small, at-home wedding will require at least 100 yards of assorted colored ribbon. Don't try to fight it. Resistance is futile. Just make the run to Michael's. Then plan to go back again for more. At least twice.

A Grace-Filled Poem for Today

2008-08-14T08:05:00.001-06:00

Turtle
by Kay Ryan

Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll,
a four-oared helmet,
she can ill afford the chances she must take
in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
a packing-case places, and almost any slope
defeats her modest hopes.
Even being practical,
she's often stuck up to the axle on her way
to something edible. With everything optimal,
she skirts the ditch
which would convert her shell into a serving dish. She lives
below luck-level, never imagining some lottery
will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
the sport of truly chastened things.

Jolies Maries

2008-07-23T20:36:00.004-06:00

Back in June, I blogged about my growing collection of religious figures. As we settle into the new place, with new people in our lives and a new concept of family, I find myself drawn more and more to the Holy Family. These three people: a carpenter, a young girl and their infant son, sum up so clearly (for me, anyway) the everyday struggle of humans everywhere to live in obedience to God, unified by a common thread of love for one another.

Early on in our search at estate sales and yard sales, I found this lovely Mary vase.

She stayed awhile on a shelf in my kitchen, holding the occasional gardenia and bringing a sense of peace and serenity to the area around my sink, which is often anything but peaceful and serene.

A couple of weeks ago, she found a new home, with someone who needed her more than I did. Best Friend of Dear Daughter is moving away with her family to the magical land of N orthc Aro Lina. Dear Daughter called me at work one day, sobbing in that soft, breathless way of a child whose heart has been utterly shattered, devastated by the realization that while she was in New Orleans on her annual summer adventure, Best Friend would be packing up and heading east. She was searching the house for something to give Best Friend as a memento. She'd come up with a few personal items, but wanted something really special. After a bit of thought, I suggested she give her Mary. She waffled for a while, not wanting to give away something of mine, but I assured her it was really okay. Finally, she made the decision and took the vase to Best Friend, who by all accounts, seems to love her.

I love the idea of this version of this Sweet Mother coming into our life for a brief while, and then going on to watch over and be loved by someone so dear to our own hearts. Besides, I know that even without the image, Mary never really leaves us. Her fingerprints really are everywhere.

Saturday, at another estate sale, I walked into a homey little Midtown bungalow near the cathedral. In a downstairs bedroom, waiting for me on a night table was this beautiful lady.
She now occupies the same spot in my kitchen as the previous figure. It's good to have her back.

This afternoon when I came home from work, there were two packages waiting. One was addressed to me, and contained the shattered results of a recent eBay purchase (more on this in another post), but the other was sent to my dear Norwegian. In it, was this delicate figure.

I love her Italianate features and her red hair. She's on a shelf in the Mom Cave up front. I love that the Norwegian thought to find her and bring her home. Of course, I also love the idea that it could be the other way around.

Due to lack of interest

2008-07-21T07:52:00.002-06:00

Monday has been cancelled. Please feel free to go about your ordinary business. Today's weather: anticipated high of 100 degrees, with a heat index (due to high pressure and excessive humidity) of 105 or greater.

From Ralph's "What Just Happened Here?" Line...

2008-07-19T21:02:00.004-06:00

Words just can't explain this. You'll have to look at the photo. While shopping today for some nice khakis and a summer dress shirt for the Junior Norwegian, I found these pants. They pretty much defy description.

I just don't know any men, or any women, for that matter, who would be caught dead in a pair of bee-dazzled khaki summer crops. Absolutely bizarre. But they are on sale at Stein Mart, if you're so inclined.

More Food Porn

2008-07-19T20:40:00.004-06:00

Some of my friends laugh at me for taking pictures of things I cook and eat. I'm sorry--I can't help it. In addition to being completely addicted to cooking and eating (kind of like I'm also addicted to sleeping and breathing), I am a very visual person. I love for food to look as good as it tastes. In the summertime, this is so easily accomplished with the bounty of local produce that is currently coming in.

Earlier this week, The Norwegian and I, newly divested of Dear Daughter (who is in New Orleans for three weeks doing her summer art camp thing), wanted a light, easy dinner we could enjoy at a civilized hour (8:30) with a nice glass of wine. As the temperature was still in the high 90s, there was but one clear choice: Caprese Salad.

I am growing four types of basil in the backyard. We have lush Genovese basil; tiny and delicate globe basil; opulent Purple Ruffles basil (also known as Opal) and spicy Thai basil. I pulled a few leaves of the Genovese and an equal number of the Purple Ruffles and set about building the perfect Caprese.
I layered beautiful fresh tomatoes from a local farm with the basil.

Next, I added slices of new buffalo mozzarella cheese. I haven't learned how to make this yet, but as soon as I find a reliable source for suitable milk that hasn't been shot full of hormones or pasteurized to death, I'll be adding that to my list of fun things to do.

I dressed the final product with some nice olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The Norwegian poured us a glass of wine and we tucked in. Simple and delicious. Life is really good.

In the Still, Quiet of the Night...

2008-07-19T03:19:00.003-06:00

Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am baking ciabatta at four a.m. Can't you just smell the rosemary...
And I can truthfully say, it's absolutely sinfully delicious.

You're Not From Around Here, Are You?

2008-07-15T20:27:00.006-06:00

People are often surprised to learn that I'm actually a native of the south. Though I was born and raised (in sight of water) in Memphis, I avoided cultivating a southern accent, and thanks to my parents' mixed marriage (she being Alabamian and he being Yankee, but not damyankee), I was raised with the best of both worlds. I grew up eating grits, white beans and turnip greens and I do make the best cornbread in the tri-state area, with the possible exception of Miss Baby, who is catching up to me quickly. I also learned that there was so much more to life than the Maid of Cotton pageant, duck-season, walking horses and SEC football.

Both cultures struggled mightily to instill in me the three Ds--dignity, decorum and decency. To some degree, they got through to me, although I do have my moments. By and large, I can with complete humility say that on a daily basis I at least strive not to behave like an absolute jackass. And most of those days, the sun sets on a fairly successful endeavor.

The cardinal rule of growing up in Memphis in the late 1960s and 1970s was "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Blessed (somewhat dubiously) with a sharp tongue and a ready mind, this is a real obstacle for me at times, but I really do try hard not to let some of the awful stuff roiling around in my brain actually spill past my lips.

Or in the case of blogging, drip and ooze out my fingertips. I've spent the worst part of today trying to figure out how to address a blogpost that was brought to my attention today. It not only name-checked me and someone very dear to me, but it lumped us in the same space and time with someone whose behaviour and attitudes are frequently questionable and most certainly do not reflect our values and beliefs. I write, as vaguely as possible, in hopes that those who know me and who might have read this person's blog will recognize the great gap between that writer's perspective and my own.

Blogging is a wonderful medium, allowing a great deal of freedom of expression and creativity, but as in any form of communication, there are rules and standards, often more implied than actually spelled out. Generally, it's a good rule of thumb that if it's something you wouldn't say out loud to someone, perhaps you shouldn't be writing it and launching it out into the ether. Or maybe that's just my upbringing. Another good rule is that unless you have specific permission or a reasonable context, it's unprofessional and just plain bad form to blog about coworkers and events that happen in the workplace or in an environment directly connected with the workplace.

Anyway, suffice it to say, I was not at all pleased to see my blogname linked to this person's immature and racist titter at some local politicians whom I not only hold in rather high esteem, but whose campaigns I have very publicly supported. The attitudes of the writer only support my belief that it truly is best to say nothing if one cannot think of anything original, civil or mature to say. I would also dearly hope that this blogger would study the definitions of "humor" and "racist." In a place like Memphis, where the cultural baggage definitely won't ever fit in the overhead compartment, it is essential to be aware and sensitive to the differences in races and cultures. Suggesting that we simply "lighten up" and be tolerant of remarks that smack of stereotypes and consider developing "a funny bone" serves only to reflect upon the juvenile and narrow-minded attitudes of the speaker.

As a child, I was sometimes farmed out to the churches of various family friends for a few days of Vacation Bible School in the summer. Despite being reared in a High Church Anglican parish, I really enjoyed those informal, hot days of glue sticks, hand clapping, grape juice, sugar cookies and singing songs that were ever so much livelier than the formal hymns we sang in our home church. One that has stuck with me through all the years was the one whose lyrics went "Oh be careful little hands what you do." In the nature of songs for children, the litany went on to include "be careful little eyes what you see" and "be careful little ears what you hear." The last verse reminded us to be mindful of what we say, lest little hop-toads and imps escape our lips and be scattered out into the void. There are those out there who blog who would do well to heed this advice.

Modus Operandi

2008-07-10T09:17:00.003-06:00

One of my sweet little friends just sent me this piece of flair on Facebook-- "Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the floor, the Devil says "Aw crap, she's up."

Hee hee hee.

Two Elizabeths

2008-07-09T15:00:00.002-06:00

For some reason I can't add these links in the sidebar, but I want to hip my readers to two of my old friends (well, not as old as I am, but I've known them both long enough to refer to them as "old") and their respective blogs. Both are named Elizabeth--one is a piranha-owning CPA (can you just smell the irony?) who works at the music studio I used to manage; and the other chucked a regular nine-to-five last year to launch a career in the beauty products industry and is apparently screaming her way up the career ladder as she carves out her own unique niche in one of the coolest neighborhoods in town. One is a blonde, one a redhead, both are fabulously funny and interesting people.

CPA Elizabeth is currently wrapped up in planning a DIY wedding with input from friends, family and the giant wedding industrycomplex. If you've never been to a wedding in the south, you've got a lot to learn. You can read her adventures at this link.

Rock star Elizabeth appeared on the Montel Williams show today, and appears here on a semi-regular basis. Have fun, and tell 'em I sent you.

Measuring Up/Day of Reckoning

2008-07-08T16:16:00.005-06:00

Dear Daughter, my 12 year old, has been going through a growth spurt. I've always known that she would be tall, based on the size of every branch on her family tree (but me). The day she was born she clocked in at a respectable 24 inches long and 10 pounds, 11 ounces. Yes, you read that right. I gave birth to a two foot tall infant weighing the same as a sack of Yukon Gold potatoes.

Anyway, I was still not prepared for today when we stood side-by-side and looked in a full-length mirror and I realized she now has a half-inch of headspace above mine.

Wow.

I'm going to bed to drown my sorrows in some Geritol.

Domestic Tranquility

2008-07-02T13:07:00.011-06:00

Continuing with the theme of being happy at home, here are some more recent photos. They are in no particular order, and represent nothing except a few of the reasons why "East, West, home best."

I call this painting "Mommy and Me." Dear Daughter painted it two years ago at school during a workshop by a visiting artist. She and the artist really clicked, and DD still raves about what she learned in a 45 minute session with this woman. I love this painting--it's simple, happy and sweet. It will always have a special place in our home.

Sleepy space. The paint was chosen by the previous owner, and we simply love it. There are plantation shutters along one wall. I open the top shutters to let the morning light in. It's beautiful. Oh, and Mrs. G, please note the Laura Ashley comforter and bed set chosen by the Norwegian (who is about as gay as Mr. G!). Not bad! The furniture is a matched set dating from the 1940s found at an estate sale. The pieces still have the tags on the back from the factory. The bed is in an upstairs bedroom awaiting the arrival of the Norwegian's son, but we love the dresser, chest and twin nightstands. It's all very Ozzie and Harriet, kind of like us.

This is our downstairs family room. Yes, we also have an upstairs family room. It's not conspicuous consumption; it's delight in finding an antique house with tons of room for both adults and teenagers. This room is 19 x 28, and features "vintage" flooring (that's pronounced "funky old linoleum"), a giant window overlooking our sweet, green backyard and gardens, and a long stone hearth with a gas fireplace. I have trouble picking a favorite part of this room--there's so much to love in here. It could very well be the stunning view. It could be the built-in cabinets on three sides of the room. It could be the lovely old tongue-and-groove panelling. It is very likely the half-timbers in the ceiling that were milled from a tree that once grew in the backyard several decades ago. This is the Norwegian's Man Cave, and is gradually filling up with memorabilia from his thirty year career in the United States Navy.

This is the Mom-cave. It's really the living room, but upon seeing the wooden radiator covers and the gorgeous paint, I staked this out as my own little piece of paradise. There is a wood-burning fireplace and a set of French doors leading to the side porch (where the Norwegian and I will be married in 88 days or so). There are two built-in cabinet/bookcases on the wall leading to the dining room. This room has a set of antique mahogany and brocade furniture we found at an estate sale for a ridiculously cheap price. It is perfect for this room.

My piano will go in this room eventually. This is such a peaceful and sweet room.

Cinnamon/brown sugar raisin bread, cooling on the kitchen counter this morning. Can you understand why I hate to leave this place to go to work?

Most of us. The Norwegian, Dear Daughter, Baby Britta and me. Not pictured are Alix Bunny, Roselle Rabbit, Eulalie the Lovebird, and the Norwegian's son, who will join us in September. Do stop by and see us sometime!

St. Joseph lives in the Mom Cave, watching over our family. I found him in front of a small shop in Franklin, TN weekend before last. He has been our family patron for many years now. If you really need something, ask for his intercession. Here he basks in the early morning sunlight. We visit often. Unfortunately, Britta thinks he's after her Secret Squirrel and unleashes her Dachshund sailor language on him. You can click here (I hope) to see more objects in the Mom Cave.

Peaches from a local orchard fill my giant pottery mixing bowl. Can you smell the sweet scent of summertime?

This silver ewer held holy water for our house blessing last Saturday. I love how it looks against the blue slate of our back door foyer in the late afternoon sunlight. After everyone left and we were cleaning up, the Norwegian and I added the water to our backyard waterfall. We have birds and squirrels that make daily visits. Nestled in the shady southwestern corner of our backyard, it is a haven of beauty and serenity.

The built-in butler's pantry in the kitchen. I've posted a photo before of this, but it had some stuff placed there by the decorator hired by the realtor. That's my antique tole platter with a giant shrimp painted on it. The rabbit tray often holds bread for our family meals. Behind the glass is my modest collection of Blue Willow ware. I pick up occasional pieces when I find good, old ones. I don't want an entire set, but the tiny bowls and dessert plates are graceful and delicate. I love the old colors and the sound the china makes when it clacks against another piece.

New Friends

2008-06-28T05:56:00.003-06:00

Thank you all who stopped by yesterday to see my house. I'm sorry I didn't exactly follow the rules and explain about the heart of my home. When I think seriously about it, the heart of my home comes down to the people share it with me--the Norwegian and Dear Daughter. We're also getting the Norwegian's son this fall, so we'll expand outward and draw him in as well. Our house is a cocoon of happiness, partly because of the house itself, but mostly because of what we all bring to it.

I tried to answer all of the comments that were posted yesterday. I'm glad everyone loves the red paint in the dining room! It was here when we bought the house and we love it too. If you think that paint is great though, you should really see the original wood molding throughout the house. It's beyond words.

As I said, we're having a house blessing service today and then a more traditional (secular) house warming. I'll post photos as soon as I can. Please check out the new links from new friends, and do come back often.

Bye for now from Memphis.

Hasta La Pasta

2008-06-27T12:30:00.006-06:00

Continuing with the dual themes of do-it-yourself, locally produced food and hearth and home, here is a recap of two consecutive evenings from earlier this summer. I had been reading Barbara Kingsolver’s most excellent “Animal, Vegetable, Mineral” and it occurred to me that my own daughter had never taken part in the ridiculously simple, yet enormously satisfying process of making pasta. When she was small, I used to make homemade ravioli, which, because she was small and much less sophisticated than she is now, she absolutely refused to eat.

Times have changed though, and it was high time to introduce her to the happy world of homemade noodles.

The ingredients are simple:

The process, even moreso.

The most time-consuming part of making noodles from scratch is the drying phase, but luckily, it can be combined with all kinds of alternate activities, such as…um, sleeping.
She did all the work herself, from mixing the ingredients, to rolling out the dough with a juice glass, to cutting it with a paring knife.

The end results looked good, and tasted better than anything in a red cellophane package. Even before cooking.
The next day, Dear Daughter lured Best Friend over to the house, where they proceeded to ransack the pantry and refrigerator and create a four-course meal, complete with hand-written menu, and served with red-headed panache. We dined on a lovely green salad, cucumber and buttermilk soup, Hasta La Pasta, served with tomato sauce and sautéed mushrooms, and finished up with peachy blackberry cobbler. We couldn’t have dined finer at any price anywhere else in town.

And our hostesses were far more charming than any local wait staff I can think of.

The Norwegian, through a glass, yellowy.

Our dining room is just one of the places at home that warms our heart. Some of our best times are around this table, eating simply, laughing deeply, loving warmly.

Golf Mystery?

2008-06-27T10:37:00.001-06:00

Can anyone analyze why I might have dreamed last night that this man was my podiatrist? Or why I was giving him putting advice? (Ditch the belly putter.) Or why he was living in my neighborhood or asking me to marry him?

I wasn't even eating anything strange before bedtime. Too bizarre.

Home

2008-06-27T07:30:00.005-06:00

I'm behind the eight-ball today. I promised Mrs. G of Derfwad Manor I would post about the heart of my home. I meant to do this and Mrs. G is one of the people in my world that I truly hate to disappoint.

I especially wanted to be a part of her virtual home tour because the Norwegian and I have been making so many great strides in setting up housekeeping. Slowly but surely, we are creating so many warm and happy places in our "new" old place. I suspect that this has every bit as much to do with the people in the house as it does the objects, but we are certainly making a conscious effort to only bring "stuff" that we really need and love into our home.

Here are a few photos from when we were looking at the house, and maybe one or two since we moved in. I'll add some descriptions later. We're having the house blessed and warmed (read "Caddie Woodlawn" for details on this) tomorrow. I will try and get a more detailed posting and new photos up after this weekend.

In Just Is...

2008-06-26T13:40:00.005-06:00

So, after twenty years of greasing the wheels of justice and employing stall tactics worthy of a three year old deferring bedtime, Exxon finally got its way. Figures.

If you've ever visited Valdez, Ak., and perhaps taken a boat through Prince William Sound by Bligh Reef, you know firsthand the importance of, say, not hiring an idiot raging drunk to pilot your vessel through this narrow and rocky passage.

Money. It really changes everything. Dammit.

Hoppity Houseguest

2008-06-20T11:14:00.006-06:00

This is Bosco, the big ol' Boy Bunny. He belongs to Best Friend of Dear Daughter, and has been staying with us this past week while her family is house-hunting in North Carolina. Despite coming into a household of two middle-aged doe rabbits (both of whom combined weigh about as much as Bosco's head), a very bossy lovebird and a miniature Dachshund who has a maximum attitude, he's had a rather good week of it.

Yesterday evening, we carried him out to the backyard for a little playpen time on the grass. He played a bit with Alix's whiffle ball and was mighty grateful for the fragrant treats from the herb garden.

He even tolerated a kiss from the puppy, who really just wanted to know why he got to play with the green ball and she didn't. We'll be sad to see him leave us on Monday, and even sadder when his family moves away later this summer. The best friends are always bunny friends.

To a Young Girl

2008-06-12T11:04:00.003-06:00

This from The Writer’s Almanac:

"It's the birthday of Anne Frank , born in 1929 in Frankfurt, Germany. It was on this day in 1942 that she received a red and white plaid journal, from her father, for her 13th birthday, and she started to write her diary, a diary that she called by the name of "Kitty." A few weeks after she started her diary, Anne's older sister Margot got a notice to report to a Jewish work camp, so the Franks went into hiding in an annex in Amsterdam. They couldn't bring suitcases, because it would look suspicious, so Anne had to wear two vests, three pairs of pants, a dress, a skirt, a jacket, a summer coat, two pairs of stockings, a wool hat, and a scarf-even though it was July. Four other people lived in the annex with Anne and her family, and they lived there together for two years. They had family friends who helped them survive, who brought them food and supplies. Anne wrote about being scared, and about injustice, and about missing the sunshine; and she also wrote about things that many 13-year-olds write about in their diaries. She wrote about how mad she got at her mother, and how she wanted privacy; she wrote about her crush on the teenage boy she lived with, and how she thought it was unfair that her parents liked Margot best.

In August of 1944, someone tipped off the Nazis, and they raided the apartment and sent everyone to concentration camps. Anne died of typhus at Bergen-Belsen just a few weeks before British troops came to liberate the camp; and of the eight people who lived in the annex together, only one, Anne's father, Otto, survived. Otto returned to Amsterdam, and a family friend told Otto that she had found Anne's diary in the annex after the Nazis had left. Anne wrote in the diary that she wanted to have it published, and so Otto wanted to try and honor his daughter's wishes. It took a while and was rejected by several publishers, but it was published in Germany in 1947, and the United States in 1952. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl has sold more than 25 million copies, and it is considered the second-best-selling nonfiction book in history, after the Bible."

Anne Frank was born a year after my own father, who died two years ago on the 16th of June. When I try to imagine them as contemporaries, it's somewhat difficult. I only knew my father as an adult, and despite the few photos and family stories, it’s hard to imagine him as anything but. Of course, none of us had the opportunity to know Anne Frank as anything but a young girl, so it’s equally difficult to imagine what she might have been had she survived.

There is so much to consider when making the attempt to wrap your mind around Anne Frank the living, breathing, thinking and feeling person, as opposed to Anne Frank, the emblem of the Holocaust. When I try to imagine Anne as a real person, outside of the larger than life person she’s become thanks to her journal, it helps to look to my own daughter, who will celebrate her own 13th birthday in four months. Naturally, there are some glaring differences between the two of them, but I would venture to suppose that most girls of that age have conflict with their mother, long for privacy, secretly eye some boy or other and harbor resentment toward siblings. I find myself wondering what the sound of Anne’s laugh was like—was it spontaneous and nutty, like the unselfconscious outbursts of Dear Daughter? Did she find wonder in the world of roly-polies under clay pots of flower seedlings? Was bedtime ever a struggle, or did she read aloud to her pets? Through her diary, we are given an all-too-brief look at her day-to-day life, in conditions that, at best, were arduous. Still, questions remain.

Then, what might the 23 year old Anne Frank have been like? Or the 33 year old? Would she be a young mother by then, a university graduate, an accomplished musician? Would she have worked for the creation of the state of Israel, or raised chickens in her backyard? Would she, at 73, been like my own father, slightly irascible, prone to seizures, fond of her grandchildren?

Only three short years separated the day Anne Frank first received the diary that would ensure her immortality and the day she died in 1945. She was forced by unimaginable circumstances to cram a lifetime’s worth of observation and thought into those brief years and somehow make them fit into the pages of a slim volume. She did a remarkable job.

Anne Frank said, "Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don't know how great you can be! How much you can love!" God only knows how great she would have been at 80, and how much love she had yet to give.

What Fruits These Morsels Be!

2008-06-11T12:42:00.005-06:00

With local beauties such as these, who could be worried about salmonella?

I can’t really claim to have jumped on the recent “locavore” wagon, because for the most part, I’ve eaten locally grown (and often homegrown) produce most of my life. Naturally, I don’t raise bananas or pineapples or kiwis in the backyard, but I’ve resisted the ugly produce in big-box supermarkets for years. When Dear Daughter was about seven, she saw some pretty half-pint containers of blueberries in the local Kro-zhay and started pleading for them. As it was March, I was suspect. The fact there was no price tag made me even more wary. I asked a nearby stocker what the price was, and he told me seven dollars.

Whoa?! Seven bucks for approximately 50 berries the size of my thumbnail? I so don’t think so. As I put them back, he looked at me like I was the unreasonable one and said, “They came from Chile!” I retorted, “Did they fly first class?”

Know your foods, people. There is joy in growing your own (okay, it’s also work, but it’s good, useful work, unlike say, moving piles of paper from one bureaucratic office to another). Stop by those local produce stands. Meet the guy with the truckload of melons. Not only will you likely avoid salmonella (or worse), you’ll be stimulating the local economy, and not some megalithic farm corporation run from an office, rather than from the seat of a Farmall.

Bathing Bird

2008-06-10T13:45:00.004-06:00

Saturday morning was hot and muggy, and we turned on the sprinkler system—partly to see how and where it works, and partly to make the hydrangeas happier. We're not the kind of people who would actually install a sprinkler system, but we were amused to discover that the previous owners had done so. There are so many flower beds across the property it does make sense, if only to not completely wear yourself out hauling water. I must say, I do enjoy taking water to the herb and vegetable garden. Visiting my baby plants and seeing what they're up to is worth crawling out of bed before the humidity awakens. It's not bad exercise either. I was, however, glad when the Norwegian bought a length of hose to make the task easier.

Back to Saturday. We let the sprinklers run for about 15 minutes, checking to see what range the system had and what was not covered so we'd know where we still need to water. Out front, a small pool of water collected on the driveway near the front porch. The Norwegian spotted this lovely girl taking a dip. We watched her for several minutes before I collected my wits enough to grab the camera. Witnessing a few brief moments of nature acting without regard to the presence or interference of humans is a true serendipity.

I made a video clip of her walking around and splashing, but the file is too large to upload here. I'm learning and will do better in the future. We're so fortunate to have abundant bird life around our home. The neighbors have two purple martin high rises in their front yard. From my kitchen window I can see the parents congregating in the morning and the young peeking out of the holes on the painted gourds. The afternoon show is just as spectacular, as the adults wheel and zoom as they orbit the poles, bringing mosquitos and other insects for dinner.

Our backyard waterfall, which we all love as much as Britta does, provides water not only for the doves and martins, but for robins and crows. They take turns visiting the fall and slaking their thirst on these hot afternoons. They all take turns grubbing about in the garden. So far, nothing we've planted has been damaged, but I do wonder about what will happen when the tomatoes start coming in.

Extended Family

2008-06-04T09:14:00.008-06:00

I’m not even going to try and explain the lengthy absence. There are simply too many factors and I won’t bore you with them. Those of you who live close enough to me have seen the impact of some of them recently. All is well. Remain calm.

I have been decorating and surprising myself along the way. The great spiritual two-by-four has been in action and I’ve come across some truly great additions to the living room. I’ve been intrigued with the concept of the Holy Family for a long time, and am finally realizing my goal of having their physical presence at home. The Norwegian and I were shopping for dining room chairs in an old shop, and I mentioned casually that I needed a St. Joseph or a portrait of the Holy Family to complete the living room. We walked down another aisle and found this hanging on the wall. It’s perfect and so sweet on my wall now.

I love these old images. There is such love and peace in them. They seem seem like they’ve been recovered from a school or church. I don’t really know, but they belong in our circa 1922 living room. They're made of plaster and look Italian, but I haven't been able to find out anything about them. If anyone recognizes the artist, I'd love to know the origin.

I saw the “big sister” to this vase in an antique shop last week, but didn’t get her. I really like this little one that I found at the same yard sale that yielded the two plaques above. Last night I cut a few blooms from the gardenia shrub behind the waterfall and stuck them in the vase. We call her “Our Lady of the Kitchen.” She’s very good company while I'm cooking or cleaning.

Ooh, Wait, I forgot

2008-05-14T20:12:00.002-06:00

to write about the TURTLE! On my way home, my cell rang and it was a good friend/co-worker/ most excellent mom and fellow church member. She is a single mother and when she got home this afternoon, her dog discovered a wild turtle out on the carport.

For some reason, she called ME to come help. I am amazed that out of all of the people in her speed dial I would be the one best qualified to deal with an amphibious invasion. She assured me though that it wasn't a huge one, so I swung by to see what could be done.

The poor creature was just a bewildered box turtle. He'd crawled up against the glass door and was peering longingly out at her lush and green backyard. I showed her how to pick him up behind his front legs and gently set him free in the front yard. Crisis resolved. Nothing to see folks, keep moving please.

It made me happy to be useful. It made her happy to get the turtle off the carport. Even the turtle seemed happy to be out of the concrete box he'd wandered into. And now I can add "Turtle Wrangler" to my list of accomplishments!

A Random Look at Wednesday

2008-05-14T19:51:00.003-06:00

It's been a pretty good 24 hours since last I wrote, and just the fact that I'm writing again in so short a time span is noteworthy. The Norwegian is still in Virginia, but is finished with the work that needed to be done and will be headed home shortly. I had a wonderful dinner out last night with two of my best friends. Spurred by the discovery of a disc of photos of our collective children from five years ago, we organized an impromptu girls night out to share some baba ganoush, falafel, feta cheese and other assorted yummy things. These are the best of all possible type of friends--two remarkable women with delightful families. Dear Daughter tumbles into the mix of their combined six children and they all get enjoy one another as much as the grownups do.

Here are some events -- some more interesting than others-- that have occurred today:

1. An early meeting that I thought was going to be three people morphed into 12 people, including a CIO, three laptop computers, a SMART board (truly a fun and useful piece of technology I wouldn't mind owning at home), a projector and not nearly enough coffee. I stayed true to the Clint Eastwood School of Time and Events Management and adapted, improvised, and overcame. Still, there's nothing like a little advance warning and planning, and trust me, this was NOTHING like advance planning.

2. A wheelchair-bound ex-con approached me at a gas station today, professing to love Jesus and asking me for money. I warned him that I don't carry cash, but he could have whatever I had. When that turned out to be a whopping $.25, he started to say something ugly and dear reader, I have to admit I about snapped. I pointed out to him that it was $.25 more than he'd had five minutes ago and he could take it or leave it. Guess which option he chose?

3. My modest but beloved Subaru Outback, over which I agonized when I bought it four years ago, if only for the $24 it cost to fill it up when new, drank FORTY-SEVEN DOLLARS WORTH OF GAS THIS EVENING. I am still reeling.

4. This evening I reclaimed and moved from my mother's house the 50 pound 1928 Royal typewriter my parents bought from a neighborhood estate sale when I was about nine years old. It was on this sweet piece of machinery that I learned to "type" and first discovered the joy of stringing together words into plays, essays, short stories and really bad poetry. The silk ribbon is dry and wrinkled, the case is grey with dust and the roller is starting to crack with age. I doubt if it will ever be truly functional again, but it will be nice to have it in my house again, as a reminder of those days.

5. I bought 50 yards of six-inch wide gold tulle and 100 yards of six-inch ivory tulle at a craft store. I swear Martha Stewart is not taking over my brain, but with 136 days left, some of my co-workers have pointed out it might be useful to start doing some planning. There. I bought some tulle. I hope this counts as a start.

Amazing Things You, Yes You, Can Buy on eBay

2008-05-13T11:03:00.002-06:00

A reliquary purported to contain fragments of the True Cross, complete with papal seal and certificate of authenticity. Asking price: $2950 USD. No one has bid yet.

Another reliquary purported to contain still more fragments of the True Cross, complete with the papal seal of Pius VI, and certificate of authenticity. High bid for a bit of wood on which the Son of God died? $81.

A reliquary complete with fragments of the crown of thorns that sat on Jesus’ brow, complete with seal and certificate of authenticity. Current high bid: $274.

One would imagine only a limited number of these were made. I think someone somewhere is having a funny on us. But they are rather pretty.

Um, hello there...

2008-05-08T19:59:00.002-06:00

It's me. I've missed so much that I wanted to write, and for reasons that vary from the "really good excuse" type to, as my father would say, "pure, Dee-laziness." I'm never sure exactly what he meant by that, but I doubt it was good.

I wanted to write about the anniversary of my blog--my failings and shortcomings, my minor triumphs and things I've learned. I wanted to write about the death of Paul Scofield, and the world's loss of a great and humble man, as well as a luscious baritone voice. I wanted to write about work and home and Dear Daughter, and St. Augustine and the Norwegian and families and the bread I've wanted to bake and the rain we thought would never stop. I wanted to write a proper goodbye to Eight Belles and to explain my new haircut.

But, I didn't.

I'm very sorry.

I have missed writing. I have been reading a lot--books and blogs and the writing on the wall. I've done a lot of laundry--some more public than private. I've considered running for the local school board. I made some bad-ass asparagus soup last night.

To those of you who have stood in the wings, gently urging me to write again, I send a heartfelt thanks. To those of you who kept writing your own blogs, thereby giving me things to think and laugh about, I am eternally grateful. To those of you (well, perhaps "to you" would be more appropriate) who compared me to Lady Lazarus earlier this week, you're smarter than you know, and I'm not talking about your staggering capacity for arcana.

I have new photographs to share. I have lunches to make for tomorrow. I have this morning's coffee pot to rinse out. And I need just one more hug from my daughter.

More later. I promise.

Coming Around Again

2008-04-15T19:55:00.003-06:00

I'm sorry I took such a long break. I didn't mean to do so, but the days just slipped away. I don't really even have all that much to show for the prolonged absence. I've read part of a book that is creeping me out, but my obsessive book compulsion won't let me abandon it. I've kept the laundry, cooking and some tiny modicum of cleaning going.

When I started this blog almost a year ago, my goal was to complete 365 posts inside of a year. At the outset, it seemed easy. There was so much I wanted to say and it seemed so easy to grab a few minutes here and there to write a little, and to even write multiple posts in the same day. Alas, it was unsustainable. I still think of lots of things to write, but I just seem to have trouble these days getting those thinks out into the ether.

I've reread a few of my early posts. Boy, has my life changed in just a year. I've undergone quite a bit of upheaval, but I've landed in a good place. I'm still getting my daily recommended dose of chaos. I'm feeling healthier and I definitely have some goals and milestones that are becoming reality.

Don't give up on me. There's more to come.

In Absentia

2008-04-01T06:49:00.002-06:00

I know I haven't written. I' ve been thinking. I promise.

In the meantime, here's a lovely photo of someone so dear to me.

Chien Bizarre

2008-03-20T09:07:00.002-06:00

If you're in Memphis and need a dog-sitter, try this service. I can personally vouch for her services!

Spring Snow

2008-03-11T12:56:00.008-06:00

I'm late blogging about this, but I was so busy enjoying the weather, and then recuperating from the cold/sinus infection/walking pneumonia thing I got as a result of the weather that I just haven't made time until now. Last Friday, after a few warm days, I was sent home from the Major Military Installation where I work as an Anonymous Paper Shuffler on account of...snow!

This was a particularly lovely snowfall--big crunchy flakes that were moist enough to compact well. While it was cold outside, the ground wasn't cold enough for it freeze into ice. The roads stayed passable, the power remained on and we hunkered down in Midtown for a nice dinner of homemade soup, good bread, broiled tomatoes and warm rum drinks. The Brother of the House made an appearance, and we even took Britta to the local branch of the National Chain Demon Video Rental Retailer to help us select some entertainment.

The snow continued into the night until about six inches had fallen. Outside the world was hushed and beautiful. The backyard was coated with a thick, soft layer of white. The next morning we set out for a local park to play before it all melted away.

Britta enjoyed romping in her first snow. As it was nearly up to her shoulders, we had to pick her up frequently, but she chased snowballs and helped Dear Daughter and the Norwegian sculpt a larger-than-life "maxi-Dachshund" that earned them all a spot on the local news broadcast. Dear Daughter, the original snow-bunny, played until her cheeks were rosy and her shoes were sodden.

By day's end, the snow was gone, and with it, the last hurrah of winter. It's 60 degrees today and the sun is shining. Spring really seems to have sprung at last. The snow was a delightful treat and a happy way to mark the end of the season.

Seeing Double

2008-03-10T12:51:00.003-06:00

Why no, as a matter of fact, Britta does NOT like to share her basket and blanky, even with a still and quiet look-alike.

Well Baby Checkup

2008-03-08T09:59:00.010-06:00

Like all good parents, we realized this week it was time for Baby Britta to visit her physician. The ever-efficient Norwegian made an appointment for her at a local veterinary practice, and we collected Dear Daughter and Best Friend and, of course, Baby Britta.

Cute puppies create quite a stir wherever they go, and Britta was certainly no exception. The staff carried her about and made a nice fuss over her. Dad took care of the paperwork:

Dear Daughter and Best Friend kept Britta entertained and calm while we waited:

Her Serene Highness, Britta Leafslayer listens for her name to be called:

A proud, but somewhat nervous dad checks out the exam table:

Treats make shots and exams a little easier to tolerate:

All went well and we were reassured of what we already felt: we have a wonderful, healthy and happy puppy. We celebrated by sneaking her into a local grocery store where she so charmed staff and shoppers alike that no one thought to point out the various ordinances we were flagrantly violating by bringing her in!

Signs of Spring, Part 2

2008-03-04T11:04:00.002-06:00

Ever the chaotic-neutral month, March is already throwing us curve balls. Saturday and Sunday were sunny, bright and warm, with temperatures in the mid-70s. They were glorious days that make you glad to be alive.

Today is grey and cold, barely above freezing with stinging flurries of snow and ice. Go figure.

Signs of Spring

2008-03-03T20:10:00.015-06:00

The first two days of March were warm and bright, so naturally those of us here at Chez Redblur spent as much time as possible outdoors. Even the animals got into the act. It was necessary to spend some time on Saturday on errands, odious tasks and being away from home (my trivia team failed to place, but I had an excellent time and ate the best piece of wedding cake ever; the headlights on the Stealth Outback both went out, but I was saved by the Norwegian; Dear Daughter went to a party and seemed to have a good time).

Sunday dawned bright and glorious--perfect for Laetare Sunday, or Mothering Sunday, as I was raised to think of it. The mid-Lent lightening was both literal and figurative, as we saw temperatures in the high 70s, lots of sunshine and plenty of good times. We had a brunch at church (wherein Mme. Redblur ate the equivalent weight of her left leg in bacon) and were rejoined by a dear friend who recently received a heart transplant. A scant five weeks post-surgery he was at church looking healthy and well, albeit behind a mask and latex gloves. He will have to continue taking infection precautions for a while yet, and of course, will be on anti-rejection drugs, but thus far, he is doing so well, for which we are truly grateful.

Sunday afternoon was spent clearing up some of fall and winter out of the backyard. I am so grateful to be back in my own house with its little yard. Scattered throughout the back we found all kinds of signs of the changing seasons.

Behold the first solar Dachshund of the year:

Glorious daffodils. The smaller ones were here when we moved in, but the giant pale ones are an heirloom legacy from a great (but tiny) lady I once knew and loved dearly:

Bunnies on the grass, alas. Actually, Alix loves being outdoors. She has her own playpen for the backyard.

All of winter's deadfall burning in the grill, to be later spread on the compost heap (after cooling, naturally).

My forsythias, which came to us from a yard in Belle Meade, are blooming. My tenant managed to kill my other bush, but this one has survived a year of neglect and is bravely putting forth blooms. I always thought these looked like banana peels:

Baby irises peeping their way through the leaves in the very back of the yard by the fence. This area of the yard is fondly known as the "Pet Cemetery." The late, great Peaches, the Mousy-Faced Hamster Girl is interred here, as is at least one cat belonging to the previous owner. I have to be careful not to hit the bricks marking their final resting places when I mow.

Lastly, the dear, kind Norwegian Bachelor Farmer tilled up my garden while I ran the lawnmower. This was no easy task, and for nearly four hours he bravely piloted my dad's small tiller through the Bermuda grass and weeds. We're both excited at the prospect of tomatoes, eggplant, onions and herbs growing in the backyard. We still have a way to go to get the garden completely ready, but he certainly made a good start of it.

Squeaky Fish Must Die

2008-02-25T14:26:00.003-06:00

This video says it all.

About Dad

2008-02-24T21:15:00.003-06:00

Today would have been my dad's 80th birthday. Dear Daughter says she sees him from time to time--usually in the house where I grew up. She's curiously matter of fact about it, considering he died in the summer of 2006. But I don't doubt she really does see him. I don't understand how or why, but they loved each other immensely. If it comforts here to see her Papa opening the door and sitting in a chair, I'm okay with that.

I'd give a lot to see him again myself.

No Joy In Memphis

2008-02-23T22:39:00.003-06:00

Why no, actually I don't want to talk about the game. I'm not even an alum, and I am truly sad. The Tigers have been the Little Team That Could this year.

Read it and weep.

Britta is showing her displeasure by murdering Squeaky Fish. At least he's purple and not orange.

Don't worry, Tigers. We still love you. Even if your head coach's annual clothing allowance more than doubles the salary of the average English professor.

And besides, there's still the C-USA Tournament to play.

Happy Birthday George

2008-02-22T08:31:00.003-06:00

I cribbed this from The Writer's Almanac. I love that tiny little show. One of my dream jobs would be to research and write for it, or perhaps my own broadcast of literature, history and humanities minutiae.

When I was a child, we honored Abraham Lincoln and George Washington separately on their respective birthdays. Presidents' Day is a nice holiday, and who doesn't love a three day weekend, but the lumping of the two together makes it easy to gloss over the lives of two truly remarkable men. Certainly they had their specific failings, and examining their lives in the context of modern values and beliefs raises particular questions. But even that cannot override the basic fact that they were, at heart, good people who accomplished quite a bit of good in their lifetimes.

Ten Things You Never Knew about George Washington, born on this day in 1732:
1. His dentures were carved from a hippopotamus tusk. They were drilled with a hole to fit over Washington's one remaining tooth, and they rubbed against his natural tooth in such a way that Washington was in constant pain, and so he used an alcoholic solution infused with opium.

2. By the time he reached 30, he had survived malaria, smallpox, pleurisy, dysentery. He was fired at on two separate occasions — and in one of them, his horse was shot out from under him and four bullets punctured his coat. He also fell off a raft into an icy river and nearly drowned.

3. During the last night of his life, a doctor friend came over to perform an emergency tracheotomy on Washington. Arriving too late, the doctor tried to resurrect Washington by thawing him in cold water, then wrapping him in blankets and rubbing him in order to activate blood vessels, then opening his trachea to inflate his lungs with air, and then transfusing blood from a lamb into him.

4. He enjoyed playing cards, hunting foxes and ducks, fishing, cockfighting, horse racing, boat racing, and dancing. He bred hound dogs and gave them names like "Sweet Lips" and "Tarter."

5. His favorite foods included mashed potatoes with coconut, string beans with mushrooms, cream of peanut soup, salt cod, and pineapples.

6. He snored very loudly.

7. He did not wear a powdered wig, as was fashionable at the time. Instead, he powdered his own red-brown hair.

8. Washington had a speech impediment and was not good at spelling. He would often mix up is and es when speaking and in writing.

9. There are 33 counties, seven mountains, nine colleges, and 121 post offices named after Washington.

10. He delivered the shortest inaugural address ever. It was only 133 words long and took 90 seconds to deliver.

Going Home, But Not Getting Far

2008-02-20T15:24:00.005-06:00

As I posted previously, we road-tripped the Deep South this past weekend. Living in the undisputed capitol of the Mississippi Delta, we occasionally have to get out and visit some of the other micro-cultures that make up this wacky part of the country. As the hysterical Florence King wrote in Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady that those not from the South often make the error that all southerners are the same, regardless of their region of nativity. This could not be further from the truth. Although the movie and television industry is the worst offender, this stereotype is all-too-frequently depicted by those who just don’t have an accurate frame of reference. To compare, for instance, a Memphian and a denizen of Nashville (a Nashvillian, if you will, and come to think of it, I know a few Nashvillians) brings to mind the old joke about comparing Americans and Canadians. If you want to know the difference between the two, just call them both Americans. Or Memphians. Or Nashvillians, for that matter.

We left home and headed in a southeasterly direction. It was a bright Saturday morning, cool and crisp. The farmlands are mostly brown at this time of year, with the occasional flash of green where a field has been sown in a winter crop of greens or winter wheat. The ride was pleasant. The Norwegian drove so I was relegated to the role of disc jockey (serving up the best of Guy Clark, John Prine and friends) and Chief Cultural Minister. I pointed out the clumps of deer, water birds, low-perching predators, abandoned farm implements, weather changes and funny signs. The best one we saw the whole weekend flashed by too quickly in a rainstorm for me to capture. The sign said “Historical Marker” and its arrow pointed straight at a dilapidated single-wide mobile home, rusting on its moorings and attended by a fleet of, ahem, vintage automobiles in various stages of repair. It looked like Jesco White’s home, although we were in the wrong state.

We reached our destination – a small town in northeastern Alabama situated on the Tennessee River. At least one horrific battle was fought here during the Civil War, reputedly over access to the railroad spanning the bridge. The old town itself is drawing in on itself. There is still a lovely district of old houses and part of the original business district is still populated by the usual purveyors of gentrification—law and architectural firms, boutiques, specialty restaurants (an oddity here in the land of fried green tomatoes). The “modern” business district—and by this I mean Wal-Mart, Target, Kroger, Best Buy and the like—are situated out on the Beltline smack in the midst of what was, in my own childhood, farmland and woodlands.

One thing that hasn’t changed in downtown old Decatur is C.F. Penn’s Hamburgers. I’ve searched the Internet for links to anything about Penn’s, but there just isn’t much out there, save musings from expatriates who miss the…um, experience. My mother was one such person. By the time we reached her sister’s apartment, Mom was pretty much starving and nothing would do but that we go to Penn’s on Moulton Street in old downtown.

The Norwegian –who grew up all over the country, and Dear Daughter were curious. I was guarded. Been there, done that. These two had never experienced anything quite like lunch at Penn’s, and I just didn’t have the words to adequately explain it.

In a nutshell, C.F. Penn’s is a classic burger diner, and this one (there are a few scattered across north Alabama) features the original neon signage, twirling stools at the lunch counter, and probably the same frying grease they used when the place opened more than 50 years ago. Dear Daughter, having been raised in the “have-it-your-way” land of burger dining, started to tell me how she wanted her burger dressed. I laughed and stopped her. At Penn’s, there’s only two ways to have your burger—all the way, or half the way. Your only other options involve number, sides (chips or fries) and the size and flavor of your Coke (remember this is the South).

“All the way” or “half the way” refers to how far across the three-foot lake of sizzling grease you want your burgers floated. Yes, I said floated. Penn burgers are cooked in advance and are reheated when ordered by floating it from the right to left side of a commercial fryer. The time it takes to float “all the way” or “half the way” is all you get to get your lunch reheated.

This, by itself, is pretty disgusting (at least to me). But wait (as they say on late-night infomercials), there’s more.

When you collect your lunch, served on white bread buns and wrapped in waxed paper translucent with grease, and accompanied by a complimentary sheet of double-ply paper toweling, the best is yet to come. I watched Dear Daughter’s face across the booth as she unwrapped her burger. She prefers “ketchup. ONLY ketchup” on her burgers, and at Penn’s, they always come with mustard and chopped onions. She quietly scraped the offending onion and mustard off and picked up the squeeze bottle of ketchup to remedy the situation. The ketchup—apparently also original equipment—did not make her much happier. The kicker was when she took a bite. See, at C.F. Penn’s, the name “burger” is kind of a misnomer. The amount of actual “burger” in each sandwich varies from “some” to none, at least none that can be tasted. What burger is present is mixed with something approximating Hamburger Helper (which it doesn’t, really), then formed into, well, not really a conventional patty; more like a lump, then first deep-fried and then reheated in the Grease-Lagoon when ordered.

I don’t know whose face was funnier—Dear Daughter’s or the Norwegian’s. I don’t think either wanted to chew, much less swallow. Fortunately, we had ordered conservatively. No one asked for seconds, except my mom, and I was glad to give her the half I was unable to finish. Dear Daughter played with my cell phone while we talked and finished up our lunch and got ready to leave.

The service at Penn’s is friendly and unique, in the way that only a Southern diner can provide. We had a good time. It made my mother happy. I like making her happy. It made Dear Daughter grateful for what she gets back home, and it made her and the Norwegian laugh, although politely out of earshot of both my family and the staff. Later on, though, I found this message on my cell phone notepad. Apparently, Dear Daughter is not anticipating a career in reviewing restaurants.

Puppies In Action

2008-02-18T17:23:00.007-06:00

Here are a few clips of Britta with her puppy family. Two of her sisters have yet to move to new homes, and we had the sheer joy of playing with them for a half hour before heading for home with our new girl.

Here the three girls discover the Norwegian:

Britta, Patches and Holly carry off Mom's camera case and kill it dead.

Meet Our New Arrival

2008-02-18T10:22:00.010-06:00

This weekend we road-tripped with the Norwegian to the mystical land of Alabama. My mother grew up in the northeastern part of the state, and you still can open just about any door on any block in any small town for a 200-mile radius and find someone standing behind it to whom I can claim kinship. Mother went with us and we stayed with one of her sisters in a tiny retirement community so newly constructed on a block of former farmland that some residents carry baseball bats and even firearms to ward off the coyotes they're likely to encounter on the way to the mailbox.

The main purpose of the trip, besides hanging out with family and eating fried catfish, was to pick up this little darling. Meet Britta, a nine-week old miniature Dachshund. She's slightly smaller than my bedroom slipper, and even the ND bunnies have about a pound and a half on her. Despite her tiny size, she's loaded with personality and charm.

Britta was born to Dixie and Elvis, who are owned by these very nice people. She lived with her four sisters and three aunts and uncles in what can only be described as Dachshund heaven.

We brought her back to the homestead across a hundred miles of twisty, country roads, through one of the worst rain storms I've ever been in. The Norwegian drove while Dear Daughter and I took turns comforting Britta. She whimpered a while, most likely as much from the noise of the rain as from the trauma of leaving home. Soon, though, she snuggled down in the baby quilt she brought from home and curled up for a nap.

Despite the many changes she had yesterday, she did really well. She played in the yard, she slept on her new bed on the rest of the trip home. She visited her new grandma's house and met her new human uncle. She met her bunny sisters and decided that they were definitely big enough for her to submit to.

Finally, it was time to go to bed. Dear Daughter pulled out the trundle in her room and put Britta's bed next to it on the floor. They snuggled in their respective quilts and sacked out. Fortunately, there was no howling or whimpering from either of them. I guess both little girls were so worn out that sleep came easily.

When I woke up this morning, I was surprised to not hear crying from either of them. I was amazed. Could it really be that such a young puppy would sleep the entire night through on her first night in a new home? I tiptoed into Dear Daughter's room and found this sweet little sight. Apparently, Britta felt that she'd just make her very own puppy pile and climbed up into the trundle with Dear Daughter. Oh well. Crate training begins today.

And so it begins...

2008-02-15T21:20:00.005-06:00

Tonight was another milestone for Dear Daughter--the very first Middle School Dance. Despite weeks of discussion and preparation, neither of us was really ready for this. I had all kinds of reasons for trepidation-- starting with my natural tendency to be a spazz. I'm sorry--I am an overprotective mother. I can't help it. I worry. She's my only child. It's all happening too fast. And I can't say that two shootings in the local public schools inside of a week, plus the terrible tragedy at Northern Illinois University have helped. She's only 12, and events like a school dance should be happy, exciting and fun.

For the past month, Dear Daughter has moped around telling me that she has no friends and that no one likes her. Judging from the giggling squad of girls who waved frantically calling her name when I dropped her off, I'd say this might be an exaggeration. I'm not discounting her feelings. These are tough years. The Hormone Fairy is causing random mood swings and the pressure of increasingly complex school work is mounting. Girls and boys who have been friends for five years or so are suddenly looking at each other with new eyes, and wondering how to channel new, strange feelings. Dear Daughter tells me who in her class is "going out" with whom and who "broke up" with whom. "Going out?" In sixth grade? I ask her, "where do they go? 'Out' the front door into the yard? This isn't real dating (thank heavens), but it's a nervous little prelude to what will come in a few years. I don't much like it. I want her to enjoy herself, but I'd be happy if the pressures of crushes and girl-feuds and weird boys could be put off just a while longer.

I helped her roll her hair and bent my usual inflexible rules about makeup and let her wear a smidgen of mascara. She has been armed with her own lip gloss for a while now. She did look sweet and comfortable. I dropped her off and she disappeared into a sea of kids.

Two hours later I walked into the noisy din of the school cafeteria. She was easy to spot, even among the 899 other sweaty, rowdy students. She was smiling. She was hanging out with a giggling group of girls who had spent the evening taking photos, eating pizza, swilling soda and chasing classmates around the room.

She's calming down a little before bed. It was a great evening for her. It turned out okay for me as well. She's still my little girl. Right now, she's snuggling in the bed with her dear old stuffed Bunny, laughing at some shared joke between them. The future can wait. All's right with the world.

Happy Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T10:32:00.005-06:00

I hope everyone out there has some love to share today--whether it's romantic or otherwise. Love really does make the world a nicer place.

I received a lovely set of solje, which is a traditional style of Norwegian jewelry made from silver with tiny spoons dangling. The necklace I was given is similar to this piece.

Legend has it that wearing solje protects one from illness and trolls. I'm amused to report that, apart from a mild headache caused by the impending weather, I'm feeling fine. Also, only one government wonk has strolled past my desk this morning, so apparently the solje is working perfectly on both accounts.

Maus im Haus

2008-02-12T20:48:00.003-06:00

Dinner was late tonight, due to the number of errands that just had to be run right after work. Some days, I get an incredible amount of junk accomplished in that small window between 5 and 7 p.m.

I ripped open the bag of sweet potatoes that's been on the counter for a week, washed them perfunctorily, made a few slits with a paring knife and chucked 'em in a pie plate and into a hot oven. Thirty minutes later, we had the yummy smell and tantalizing appearance of a nicely browned...
mouse?

I put it on Dear Daughter's plate and she laughed. Then she ATE it.

Towards a More Colorful Vocabulary

2008-02-12T16:00:00.001-06:00

Due to all kinds of things today--disagreement with Dear Daughter first thing in the morning, hitting my elbow on a soap dispenser in a YMCA shower, certain aspects of my job and the afternoon/evening errands I have planned, I owe the Swear Jar about $836. My mouth lately has, as they say, gone pretty far south, and I’m abysmally ashamed of myself. Fortunately, today is the last day of my hormone therapy and life should be quickly getting back to pseudo-normal.

I truly thought I'd outgrown all of this, but apparently I haven't. I’m really quite embarrassed about it. Throughout my life I’ve gone through phases of extreme language usage, but I’m usually able to check it pretty quickly. The past month has not been so bad, in spite of a stress level that rocketed through the roof and past the stratosphere. This past week though…I’m inclined to blame it on the Prometrium, but I suspect there’s an underlying moral failure at work here.

There’s a poem—I can’t remember the writer or the title just now – about crows cawing in the road over a piece of roadkill, and likening their harsh, repetitive cries to a habitual user of profanity. Crows use the only word they know, and with vigor and emphasis. Lately, the words (or words) I’ve been using have been rather, um, crow-like in their harshness and lack of depth.

When Dear Daughter was about two years old (see? there’s a terrible precedent here), she came flying into my room at bedtime, threw her stuffed Bunny on the bed and announced “I’m going to put my (universal adjective) Bunny to bed now.” My jaw and my heart dropped. I swooped her up and hugged her and said, “I’m so sorry you’ve heard Mommy use that horrible word. It’s such a bad word, and I’m very sorry I’ve used it. I am going to try to never use it again, and I hope that you won’t either, because it’s such an awful word.”

She looked up at me with those sweet blue eyes and said, “You mean like g** d*****?”

So, I’m admitting in public, because confession is good for us, that I have a potty mouth that really needs some work this week. It’s only Tuesday and my swearing is more than my mortgage.

Send me your favorite words—the good ones. The nice ones. The ones that make you think of things and people you love. The words that taste good in your mouth and make you want to say them over and over out-loud. I obviously need to refresh my vocabulary with some better words, especially before my bank account runs dry.

Shopping and Other Exercises in Futility

2008-02-09T15:20:00.001-06:00

Dear Daughter is growing up. Since starting this blog, I've chronicled a bit of the drama and trauma associated with making the transition from little girlhood to young lady land. Mostly, it's not been so bad. At heart, she's really a great kid who is still rather eager to please and is a truly sweet and kind person. I am amazed at her thoughtfulness and desire to help others. Life with her is happy and exciting, even as we enter the emotional and physical minefield of prepubescence. I can handle her no longer finding it funny (at least not in a good way) when I dance in public or sing along with the radio. I can handle the fact that the days of the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus are all fading in the rear-view mirror. I can handle her dissing my deodorant as "old-lady smelling" and dropping words like "emo" and "dang" into her speech in a manner that is easy and familiar, as if they get used quite a bit around a certain middle-school lunchroom. I can even handle that seemingly overnight she leapfrogged past me in shoe sizes. What I am having trouble with is shopping for clothing. Fortunately, she has enough natural modesty and body-consciousness that she doesn't tend toward too many outrageous styles. Like most young girls, she did go through her phase of over-accessorizing and drenching herself in sugary lipgloss and cloyingly inexpensive perfume. I chuckled at her a little behind her back and let it go. Fortunately, it ran its course and her taste is now a little more classic, even at the tender age of 12. Today we spent two hours looking for one dress. Dear Daughter has always been tall, and while we haven't yet had a visit from the Hormone Fairy, her body type has definitely left the Children's Department behind and we've entered the bewildering and often scary world of Juniors. Browsing through the racks of two major department stores and three smaller chains, I found myself asking the question "Junior What?" Streetwalker, perhaps? Aspiring Pop Star, a la such role models as Miss Spears and Miss Lohan? It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack than to find a dress suitable for a 5' 4" pre-teen with no hips, breasts or need to go strapless in public. I'm not sure if the world has left me behind or if I'm just terminally fuddy-duddy. My sister would vote for the latter, but I just don’t see why clothing manufacturers can’t make just a few styles suitable for young girls to wear to, oh, I don’t know, church?

I tend to view culture rather like an MS Word document…that little “track changes” tool is always on, and I reserve the right to accept or reject changes at any time. I can’t stop her from growing up. Actually, I don’t even want to. While I will always be wistful for those days when I could actually pick her up and she would make up songs and stories about her stuffed rabbit, and dressing her was an enterprise easily accomplished in the 4-6x department, I am relishing this journey. Watching Dear Daughter grow and mature is an adventure unlike any I could imagine, and I wouldn’t trade it for two red ponies and a sack of feed. She’s a beautiful and wonderful young lady and everyday brings something new and exciting. We don’t always see eye to eye (well, not figuratively, anyway. Literally, we’ll be there in about three months.), but we love each other magnificently, and we rejoice in that love. I know the day is coming when she’ll pack up and go away to college, work and whatever the world holds in store for her. When that day comes, she is welcome to pack up all the strapless, string-strapped, micro-mini, cropped, bedazzled, branded stuff she wants. I think she’ll make good choices and avoid most of those, but until that day comes, all I want is just a dress with sleeves and a hem that at least touches her knee.

For Ash Wednesday

2008-02-06T10:10:00.002-06:00

The Misere:

Latin Vulgate version
Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.
Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum: dele iniquitatem meam.
Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea: et a peccato meo munda me.
Quoniam iniquitatem meam ego cognosco: et peccatum meum contra me est semper.
Tibi soli peccavi, et malum coram te feci: ut justificeris in sermonibus tuis, et vincas cum judicaris.
Ecce enim in iniquitatibus conceptus sum: et in peccatis concepit me mater mea.
Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti: incerta et occulta sapientiæ tuæ manifestasti mihi.
Asperges me hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
Auditui meo dabis gaudium et lætitiam: et exsultābunt ossa humiliata.
Averte faciem tuam a peccatis meis: et omnes iniquitates meas dēlē.
Cor mundum crea in me, Deus: et spiritum rectum innova in visceribus meis.
Ne projicias me a facie tua: et spiritum sanctum tuum ne auferās a me.
Redde mihi lætitiam salutaris tui: et spiritu principali cōnfirmā me.
Docebo iníquos vias tuas: et impii ad te convertentur.
Līberā me de sanguinibus, Deus, Deus salutis meæ: et exsultābit lingua mea justítiam tuam.
Domine, labia mea aperiēs: et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam.
Quoniam si voluisses sacrificium, dedissem utique: holocaustis non delectaberis.
Sacrifícium Deo spiritus contribulatus: cor contritum et humiliatum, Deus, non despicies.
Benigne fac, Domine, in bona voluntate tua Sion: ut ædificentur muri Jerusalem.
Tunc acceptabis sacrifícium justitiæ, oblationes et holocausta: tunc imponent super altare tuum vitulos.

Revised Standard version

Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy steadfast love; according to thy abundant mercy blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin!
For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.
Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done that which is evil in thy sight, so that thou art justified in thy sentence and blameless in thy judgment.
Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me.
Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Fill me with joy and gladness; let the bones which thou hast broken rejoice.
Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from thy presence, and take not thy holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of thy salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit.
Then I will teach transgressors thy ways, and sinners will return to thee.
Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation, and my tongue will sing aloud of thy deliverance.
O Lord, open thou my lips, and my mouth shall show forth thy praise.
For thou hast no delight in sacrifice; were I to give a burnt offering, thou wouldst not be pleased.
The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.
Do good to Zion in thy good pleasure; rebuild the walls of Jerusalem,
Then wilt thou delight in right sacrifices, in burnt offerings and whole burnt offerings; then bulls will be offered on thy altar.

King James version
Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.
For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.
Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest.
Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.
Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom.
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.
Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit.
Then will I teach transgressors thy ways; and sinners shall be converted unto thee.
Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation: and my tongue shall sing aloud of thy righteousness.
O Lord, open thou my lips; and my mouth shall shew forth thy praise.
For thou desirest not sacrifice; else would I give it: thou delightest not in burnt offering.
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.
Do good in thy good pleasure unto Zion: build thou the walls of Jerusalem.
Then shalt thou be pleased with the sacrifices of righteousness, with burnt offering and whole burnt offering: then shall they offer bullocks upon thine altar.

The Care and Feeding of Blogs

2008-02-04T20:14:00.002-06:00

I can't believe I've let an entire week lapse since last writing. I don't mean to go so long between posts, but work, home, family, cooking, unpacking, illness, death, life, etc. all just conspire to get in the way. If I take time to blog while I'm at home, I look around at the boxes I have yet to unpack and the floor I have yet to mop and the bathroom I have yet to organize and I feel guilty and lazy and worthless. If I try to sneak a few minutes at work to blog I look around at the work on my desk and my co-workers hammering away at their own assignments and I feel guilty. If I try to blog at the end of the day while Dear Daughter is up then I feel guilty for taking time away from her.

So, I'm reeling in guilt, trying to justify my need to write something, anything, if only to reassure myself that I have a connection with a world outside my immediate life. I read a lot of blogs pretty regularly. The kind that attract me are usually written by women, mostly other mothers, and a high percentage of those are homeschooling mothers. Some of the better blogs that match these criteria include Derfwad Manor, Fine Old Famly, SunshinyLiving, and Redneck Mother. I admire these women so much--not only do they haul out of bed every morning (this alone can be a trying chore for me some days), but they coax not just child, but CHILDREN (as in multiple, i.e., more than just one--although there are days when I swear Dear Daughter actually qualifies as more than one since I just feel surrounded by her) out of bed, feed them creative and nutritious meals, and then proceed to go about life, love and the business of acquiring knowledge (as opposed to mere education) in an organic and interesting way. These, and other formidable women inhabiting the blogosphere, manage to balance running a household; raising happy, healthy children, along with assorted livestock and pets; and at the end of the day write lengthy, interesting blog posts on an assortment of interesting topics as diverse as religion, politics, home life, what their kid pulled out of his pocket and the everyday minutiae that makes living so interesting..

I'm trying hard to not descend into a rant attempting to justify my life or cast aspersions on someone else's life. Given the opportunity, would I stay home and educate my daughter at home? You betcha. Do I cook? Yeah--and sometimes it's even good stuff. Do I wish my house was more organized and aesthetically pleasing? Well, maybe a little...just enough to be more comfortable having people over. Do I wish I had more time to write? Of course. I also wish I had more time to knit and unpack and hang out with my mom and teach my middle schooler how to ride a bicycle and to practice Scarlatti on the piano and teach my bunnies how to jump hurdles and so on...

I don't grudge these fascinating women their lives. I don't really dislike my own, for that matter. Maybe it's just a case of the grand ennui. I'm in a rebuilding phase. I'm rediscovering who and what I was before I let myself get lost in a long-term love affair. In my defense. I thought this was The One. I thought I could get comfortable and expand my idea of life, home and family. So, for three years, I muddled along thinking I was working towards a Happily Ever After. Turns out, of the six other people involved in it, I was the only adult who actually envisioned that happening.

So, here I am, back at home. Or at least, back at house. Despite having lived here for nearly five years before moving out, I'm still getting my head and heart around the concept that this is home. Of course, truth be told, I never honestly felt at "home" in the house we lived for the past year and a half. I tried to make it home, but you can only do so much with paint and shelf paper. No matter how many times you rearrange the furniture, if the hearts aren't there, it just isn't home.

I walked out in my backyard yesterday. It was an uncharacteristically warm day for February. It was a bit blustery and the ground is still boggy, but it was nice to walk around my own little piece of the world. I didn't see any bluebirds yet, but maybe once I get the garden retilled and the bronze irises come up and my gigantic Lady Banks rosebush blooms, it will start to feel more like home.

Nothing Stops The Wonder of My Hair, Part Deux

2008-01-28T18:45:00.001-06:00

Check this out...

Nothing Stops the Wonder of My Hair

2008-01-26T15:39:00.002-06:00

So, the roommate-formerly-known-as-Dear-Daughter-who-henceforth-shall-be-called-Sixth- Grade-Supermodel got a whopping two inches cut off of her hair today. Here she is, styling and profiling in the kitchen before the opera.

Time flies when you're watching it spin through the eyes of a child.

Recipe Dreaming

2008-01-25T11:15:00.001-06:00

ah, such poetry as lives in cooking—
leeks and cornmeal,
figs and fennel,
savory, thyme, rosemary and oats.
your hand covers mine as I wield the knife-blade,
the chopping board thumps with each downward stroke.
courgette, turnip, carrot and pumpkin,
potato, shallot, artichoke, beet.
crisp apples with onion, walnuts and ginger;
steam-borne aromas of mushroom and wine;
scallion, cilantro, cardamom, turmeric;
boursin, edam, gouda and bleu.
yeasty odors waft from the oven,
linens are starched, the candles a-glow.
tea-kettle bubbles, cups stand by waiting,
spoon clinks on crystal,
the table is laid.

15 Seconds of Flame

2008-01-25T10:27:00.001-06:00

I started to write a lengthy, pompous post about the evils of Barbie, modern media and the hypersexualization of young people, but it was too boring and cliched even for me. Anyone who knows me knows my opinions on these matters. It's ridiculous what we allow our children to watch, listen to on the radio and see at movie theatres. I keep a pretty close rein on Dear Daughter and we don't even have network television in our home at present. She learns all kinds of things from her school friends, but fortunately, she listens more to the good influences of some of our more conservative friends, who generally hold Barbie, Bratz and Hannah Montana in the same jaundiced light as I do.

Still, it's kind of funny when two grade schoolers get hold of a karaoke machine and dress themselves up in drag for a living room concert...

How Cold Is It?

2008-01-25T09:21:00.001-06:00

I don't like to complain about the weather. It's what it is, and we can't do anything about it. Besides, the rhythm of the weather and the seasons is comforting to me. They follow one another in a sequence that may not be convenient for the needs of humans, but that were designed for the overall good of the planet itself. I'm not suggesting that catastrophic events--hurricanes, lightning strikes, drought, and the like -- are for the ultimate good, but they do have a place in the order of things.

It's cold here, and not surprisingly, there's plenty of discussion about it. This morning it was 19 degrees when I stopped to fill up the car on my way to the base. Beside the gas pump was a splatter of frozen vomit, immobilized by the cold in all its technicolor glory. It was quite the sight for 7 a.m.

It never ceases to amaze me that people are surprised that it's cold in JANUARY. It's winter, people. Wear a coat (and in the specific case of Dear Daughter, zip it up). Put your gloves on. Find a hat. Tie your scarf. This won't last forever. Remember how brisk and zippy this feels when it's July and the humidity and heat combine to creation an illusion that we're somehow breathing soup instead of air.

I like winter. I like cold weather and the exhilarating feel of frigid air and my breath frosting with each exhalation. I love the frost patterns painted on my car windows in the morning. The rime of ice on the edges of slow-moving rivers and wetlands I pass during my morning commute are beautiful in the thin January sunlight.

Given my health situation, I'm not crazy about being cold, but as I mentioned before, there are ways around that. I wear warm socks. I'm not too proud to pile on layers of underwear, turtlenecks, sweaters and outerwear. Each afternoon when I pick up Dear Daughter from Chez Fine Old Famly, I delight in a few quick moments by their ever-crackling fireplace, a homey Eternal Flame blazing away beneath their mantel laden with icons. January is cold weather time. It's beef-and-barley soup time (or if it's Friday, potato-leek soup time). It's fresh bread baking in the oven time. It's snuggle on the couch with a blanket, a book and Dear Daughter time. It's write a letter to Subaru thanking them for seat heaters time. It's quiet time. If you listen closely, you can hear the gentle sounds of the world sleeping, dreaming of spring time.

So savor the winter. The land is resting, and we should be, as well. It's gathering strength for the burst of growth that will come in spring. Today we're cradled in the respite between the joy of Christmastide and Epiphany and the solemnity of Lent. Spring will come. The light will return (both literally and figuratively). There is beauty also in rest and dark.

Just remember to watch your step at the gas station. ;-)

On My Way

2008-01-22T17:45:00.001-06:00

Ooh, I have so entered the 20th century!!! I have DSL at home now! This afternoon I moved my computer from my previous place of residence and set up the DSL all by myself (yes, I do realize this is not a terribly challenging task, but most of you have never tried to see me do anything mechanical or technical). I'm set up in my kitchen between the wine rack, the kitchen table and the back of the tiled island. This is, I hope, a temporary setting, but for now, I'm up and running. I'm happier every day. This is a quantum leap.

Your Boat's Lost at Sea

2008-01-16T13:16:00.001-06:00

It’s been a while since I wrote an historical note, and today’s event isn’t so old as to be what is usually considered history. It did happen eight years ago, and there are people in the world for whom this is still a pivotal, life-altering event.

Today in 2000, John Morris Rankin swerved to miss a pile of road salt on Route 219 near Margaree Harbour, Cape Breton Island, NS. His SUV tumbled down the 25 meter embankment into the Atlantic Ocean. Three teenage boys, including his son Michael, escaped and climbed back up the cliff and were rescued by passersby. Rankin was found dead in the partially submerged vehicle, presumably from the impact of the crash.

One of 12 children born in the small Canadian province of Nova Scotia, Rankin was a songwriter, instrumentalist and a loving family man. His family group, the Rankins, was made up of some of his sisters and a brother. Although they never made much noise on the American music scene, they were absolutely huge in Canada, in both the folk-rock and traditional Celtic genres. After his death, John Morris Rankin’s daughter Molly joined the group for a reunion tour, taking her father’s place as fiddler on an emotional comeback in 2007.

I didn’t know him, just his beautiful songs and his recordings. I’m listening to the album Endless Seasons today. It’s a nice collection of nice people singing lovely songs. Here's a performance clip I think you'll like.

Get Yer Scorecards Here

2008-01-14T07:52:00.002-06:00

Yesterday I attended a birthday party for a very dear little friend. Although the big day isn't actually until Wednesday, we celebrated the first birthday of Riley, the granddaughter of the Loved One, who although we no longer share the same space, is still very much cared for and loved in our hearts.

As first birthday parties go, it was fairly typical--crowded with adults and toddlers, lots of pink everywhere, and plenty of food. The birthday girl was rather uninterested in most of the proceedings. She needed a nap and the house was pretty crowded with lots of people making lots of noise. Still, when Dear Daughter and I came through the door, she laughed and toddled forward and relieved us of the bag we were carrying. It had bunnies on it, and she had a good time dragging it behind her.

The Loved One is back in Alaska, working, so it was somewhat awkward for us. This was our first encounter with his family since moving out. Naturally, there was a bit of confusion about how to introduce me to people ("This is Riley's dad's father's um, girlfriend, no, wait, um, ex-....ah. well,...um"). I just shook hands and said "Just call me Lalah. Riley does."

For the record, the guest list included the following: Riley's mother, Riley's father, Riley's father's new girlfriend (who is expecting in June). Riley's father's new girlfriend's dad (and his boyfriend), me (aka-Riley's father's dad's ex-girlfriend), Riley's grandmother (my ex-boyfriend's ex-wife), Riley's dad's stepfather, Riley's maternal grandmother, Riley's maternal grandfather (her grandmother's ex-husband), and Riley's mother's new ex-boyfriend.

Relationships and family used to be so simple. Contrary to appearances, I miss those days when parents and children all had the same last name and all lived in the same house, and at the same time. Actually, I know more couples and families for whom this is still true than not. I admire them and sometimes even have a little envy for them. I'm not good at this relationship thing. I try. I hope. I am always optimistic, but so far my average is pretty lousy.

Since Dear Daughter appeared in my life 12 years ago, I've kept a pretty stiff upper lip about it. She's had lots of questions about our family and why it's just the two of us, and I've always tried to answer them honestly and carefully. It hasn't been easy and we've both shed a few tears over the years about this.

Throughout it all, I've maintained the same position though. Family is blood, but it's also much more. We have so many wonderful friends who have, over the years, become very real extensions of our family. Luckily, we've discovered, family is so much more than just those with whom you share blood and DNA. It's the people who you co-op meals with, barter your hand-me-downs and extraneous furniture, you sing with them in church, you hold hands with at funerals, they yell at your kids, you pick up after theirs. You carpool with them, exchange recipes, crash on their couch, disagree with them about politics. You love them, you worry about them, they shake their heads silently over your latest relationship debacle.

For a while at the party I carried Riley around in my arms. I love that girl so much. She's so tiny and precious, and when she looks up at me and raises her hands for me to pick her up my heart almost bursts. We don't share anything except we're both hitching a ride on the same planet for a while. Still, she's my family, and that won't change, no matter what.

Baroque No More

2008-01-09T15:38:00.001-06:00

I have to say I truly miss having Internet access at home. This hasn't happened yet due to a number of factors, prime among them is that I have been too lazy to research the various offers of Internet alone, cable TV plus Internet, land-line telephone plus Internet, land-line telephone plus Internet PLUS cable TV, ad inifitum, ad nauseum. The adage about not missing your water until the well runs dry is true. It just makes my head hurt to think about sorting through all of that information and making a decision.

So, my decision for now is not to think about it a little bit longer, and to continue to blog from wherever whenever I can.

Monday, whilst home in the morning due to a flaming flare up (imagine actual flames settling in the joints of your wrists, back, elbows, ankles and hips), I received a call from the local piano dealer telling me a tech was finally available to come and look at the damage to my beloved Acrosonic inflicted by the movers. Was I interested? You betcha.

An hour or so later, the noble Wes pulled his trusty Volvo into my driveway. Hauling out his bag of tools and putting on nice, fussy little shoe covers, he quickly dismantled the upper portion of my spinet and soon located the problem. It seems three octaves of keys had become dislocated from the capstans, causing them to be jammed in the keyboard. And yes, oh Mr. Snotty Adjustor from the Moving Company, this was directly attributable to the fact that the piano was turned ON ITS END to be moved. And just for the record, it's a very good thing your guys DIDN'T actually drop it during the move.

It took him about fifteen minutes to do the actual work. We also chatted a bit about rabbits (they were watching him avidly), music in general and the irony of being charged an extra fee for special handling of the piano, only to have it damaged in the actual handling.

Anyway, a half hour later my nice little piano was feeling much better

and I was definitely happier. I wrote him a modest check, took his card and promised to schedule a tuning sometime in the near future and did a wincing, hobbling happy dance in honor of my restored instrument. I played a few bars of a Handel sonata, despite the fire in my hands. It was so good to be able to play again, if only briefly.

Wes was also able to reference the serial number on my piano and determine when it was built. I knew it was used, but figured on it being about 30 years old. It turns out I have a war baby! My dear Acrosonic was built in 1942, which lends the imagination toward all kinds of nice stories. I wonder what hands played her, and what tunes she sang? Did she welcome home a loved one from overseas? A sweetheart sailor perhaps? Or was her cover solemly closed and draped in black, to acknowledge that some beloved someone wouldn't be coming home after all?

I love old furniture and old instruments. I loved my piano before knowing her vintage, but having a specific date and era gives me a new love and respect for her. What a rich and exciting time to be brought into the world.

At the end of the day, my piano was once again whole and hale. My hands felt better and I was even able to play a little. By bedtime, all was right with the world, and she held the lovely flowers sent by a friend. We're home at last.

Sing for the King

2008-01-08T08:46:00.000-06:00

It's the birthday of the King...well, the late king, anyway. Today in 1932 in Tupelo, Miss. a child was born who changed the world in many ways. He left us far too early and under tragic circumstances. At least he didn't live to see his daughter marry Michael Jackson. Some say he's still out there. As this clip shows, if he is, there are pros who can help him find his way back home.

More of the Story

2007-12-31T13:17:00.000-06:00

It's New Year's Eve--please be careful out there. Celebrate sensibly and make it home to see the new year!

I spent Friday afternoon alone in the house continuing the cleaning process. Dear Daughter went to a museum and IMAX film with JenMc, the Evil Bunny and Banana Girl. I got lots done and actually kind of enjoyed the quiet of being "home alone."

There's a great sense of accomplishment to be had in setting things up around a house in such a way that what was before merely a "house" becomes a "home." While we try not to set a great store on "things," there are objects--photographs, paintings and the like -- that truly create the environment that nurtures and stimulates us. We're not entirely there yet, but crucial items -- the Walter Anderson postcards my mother had framed for me in 1994, the Homer Winslow print of a girl reading that was my Christmas gift in 1995, the lost painting by my legendary great-grandfather that mysteriously resurfaced in the mail in 2004, the print from a Franklin street festival of a little girl on a front porch braiding her grandmother's hair--are in place. I think they, too, are glad to be home.

Dear Daughter has switched rooms and has some different furniture. I bought a daybed and trundle from an estate sale recently and swapped it for the giant maple futon she'd been sleeping on before. It looks rather girly and sweet, but in a 'tweenagery kind of way. She also has her purple mushroom chair in there, and the lovely table she made at Art Camp last summer. The top is a nightscape she designed and carved into a plate of linoleum and then printed on handmade paper. She cut the glass to fit the table top and welded the table together. It's a simple and happy piece, and quite a nice work of art, especially for a grade-schooler.

Later, as I was winding down, I thought to take advantage of the peace and play a little music. My piano looked so beautiful sitting in the sunlight pouring through window and it made me so happy. I opened the case to find this frightening sight:

Apparently, when the movers turned the instrument upside-down, three octaves of keys raised and locked and will not go down. I am absolutely heartsick. I'm waiting on both the moving company to send a claims adjustor and the piano company to send a technician to see IF it can even BE repaired. In the meantime, my poor lovely piano is nothing more than a beautiful piece of wood holding up some very nice candles. To paraphrase Augustine of Hippo, "...our lives have no music in them, and our hearts are lonely, and our souls have lost their courage."

The Fifth Day of Christmas

2007-12-29T11:22:00.000-06:00

I'm not expecting any gold rings today, but the move continues to progress in wacky and wonderful ways. The sun is shining today, which makes up for the chilly temperature. There's all kinds of tasks left to be accomplished, so I'm certain we can get plenty done without suffering too much from the temperature.

Yesterday was eventful. Aided by the head of the Mathematics department of a prestigious local private academy (aka JenMc) and her two lovely children (who, for the purposes of this blog have asked to be referred to as Evil Bunny and Banana Girl) met us at the house to begin cleaning. My tenant was...um, less than tidy, and we were faced with a good bit of work. The kids set about tackling windows, dusting ceiling fans and sweeping while Jen and I took over the kitchen. I opened the oven to this:After liberal application of caustic chemicals and a half hour of elbow grease, it was greatly improved. Jen worked on the laundry closet while Banana Girl made the picture window shiny and bright.

Meanwhile, Dear Daughter and Evil Bunny (who is actually quite a nice young man) tackled a repair job in the bathroom. The soap dish had come off of the tile wall, and we thought it would be simple to reattach using this handy-dandy product:

They gave it a good shot, and patiently sat with their feet in the tub for ten minutes, holding the dish to the wall while the glue cured. The soap dish actually stuck to the wall for about 20 minutes before crashing again into the tub. Distracted, I tossed the soap dish onto the nearest flat surface, thinking I'd deal with it later.

"Later" came when one of the kids discovered I'd made a fascinating alteration to a bathroom fixture and announced "the toilet seat now has a handle!" And by golly, it did!

More to come: a "tailor-made" mattress, breaded fried chicken parts, the joys of toluene, and a horrific discovery.

The Fourth Day of Christmas

2007-12-28T08:13:00.000-06:00

No sign yet of the Four Calling Birds, but I do have wonderful human help on the horizon. Today, we attack the house with cleaning supplies. I'm also installing the microwave oven (a dubious sign of impending civilisation), sewing the mattress on the trundle bed back together, cleaning that nasty oven and gluing the soap dish back to the tile wall. It's been more than 48 hours since I wore mascara (and yet the world continues to turn). Never fear, I am still exfoliating and moisturizing. My hands feel like .060 sandpaper, but this too, shall pass. We are going HOME!!!!

On the Third Day of Christmas...

2007-12-27T22:26:00.000-06:00

I got, not three French hens, but rather Two Men and a Truck. Actually, I lucked out and got two sets of two men and a truck each. I had the hired moving company PLUS a friend and a brother and a Big Red Truck (an actual vehicle, as opposed to a wine of questionable vintage, although by mid-day, even a self-consciously trendy wine who owes more to its clever label than actual quality would have been a good thing).

By 7:30 a.m., I had not only showered and got Dear Daughter underway, but had cooked breakfast, started hauling boxes from the attic and organized three boxes for Goodwill. At 9:30, the movers called to say they were done loading up my tenant, so we (the brother, the daughter, the co-worker and I) pointed our caravan (BRT and a mini-van) laden with boxes and bookcases north towards home.

All told, the move went remarkably well--way better than I could ever have imagined. By 3 p.m., we had all of my furniture and 90% of my packed boxes moved. I still have some packing to do (closet stuff), but the big stuff is out of the way. My favorite moment was when the amazing Arlando walked past me, single-handedly pushing my piano, which was turned UPSIDE-DOWN and strapped to a dolly. Of all the men the company could send me, they picked THE MAN.

My least favorite moment was discovering the condition in which my tenant left my house. Heavy sigh. Tomorrow will be spent cleaning around the furniture. I already scraped the top layer of grease off of the cooktop and tile backsplash, and made the bath tile clean enough I might actually use the shower in a day or two. We've vacuumed the entire house for the first time. Tomorrow, a crew consisting of my self, Dear Daughter, the head of the Mathematics department at a prestigious local private academy, and her two bond-servants (pronounced "children") will attack the house armed with Murphy's Oil Soap, oven cleaner and lemon Pledge. By day's end, I hope to have not only rendered the house habitable, but also have explained to my former tenant in exacting detail precisely why her deposit is forfeit.

Anyway, we're winding down here. A wonderful thing about hard physical work is how pleasant by contrast it makes rest and sleep. But first, I have one more task to complete...we realized that all of our clothes are at OUR house, but WE are still here, so I am washing and drying laundry so we'll have something clean to wear tomorrow. It never ends, but really, I'm not complaining. We're going home. We have wonderful, dear friends and family (Mom, Pat, Number One Brother, MCBA, Fineoldfamly, JennyMc, E) and things are gradually returning to normal. Life is good, and getting better by the day.

Bunny Waits for Santa

2007-12-24T14:59:00.001-06:00

So, I'm minding my own business, filling the tank of the Nimble-mobile and watching wispy clouds scud across a brilliant blue sky. It's Christmas Eve day, and all things considered, all is pretty calm and bright.

I hear maniacal giggling from inside the car, and climb in to find Dear Daughter punching buttons on my cell phone and laughing. Turns out, her Inner Auteur took over while I was pumping gas. Here is the result.
Wishing you and yours a very Bunny Christmas, from our nut-house, to yours.

And so this is Christmas...

2007-12-24T11:07:00.001-06:00

Looking back at what we've done, I'm amazed I am upright, much less able to write anything about it. Of course, I've only just started trying to write, so who knows, I may not get any distance at all.

It's Christmas tomorrow. Today is the last day of the Advent season. Dear Daughter and I have tried, through the chaos and sadness, to keep a reasonable and hopeful Advent. I just this moment realized that in the exhaustion and emotion of last night (as the Loved One prepared to leave for his holidays with his family and then on to Alaska), we completely forgot our Advent Sunday night ritual readings and candles. I knew something was missing from the evening...actually, there was a great deal missing from the evening...but I am sorry for overlooking that extremely important element.

About 7 p.m. last night we had a knock at the front door. People rarely come to the front, as we are definitely back-door folk. The wide parking apron, generous carport and elevated patio make a much nicer entrance, especially as it opens into a warm and fairly inviting den, instead of the cool, marble-paved foyer. The front of the house was dark, and I picked my way through the pile of packed boxes and the stack of boxes waiting to be built and filled. I switched on the lights and unlocked the doors to see who was there. Elijah, perhaps? Joseph and Mary, looking for shelter? Someone who mistook our dark and sad house for the holiday party they were missing?

No, it was Titus. He was thin and smiling, shivering in two layers of plaid, flannel shirt, fleece gloves and worn jeans. He had no coat, no hat; only a satchel filled with books and a massive, crackling walkie-talkie shoved in the bag. I knew in an instant I was about to be hit with a pitch to buy books I neither wanted nor needed. Still, I opened the door and this shy, thin boy began to talk.

He told me he and his sister were working the neighborhood, selling books to try and raise money for college. They were from Kentucky, he said; and he was home-schooled but hoped someday to get more formal education. His eyes darted around, and wouldn't meet mine. He was so thin and fragile looking, and his smile was bright and cheery, despite the 30 degree child. The skin on his face was translucent and shone as he talked of someday going to Heaven and meeting Jesus face to face, along with the loved ones he'd known on earth.

He was earnest and shy, and I knew he was no threat. I gave him the little cash I had with me for a book called Pathways to Health and Happiness. I offered him a coat, as we had a couple of extras hanging in a nearby closet. As moving day comes closer, we are getting rid of things we don't need. He declined and said he was fine in his shirt sleeves, smiled again, and turned to go.

As he walked down our steps, Titus turned back toward me and asked me to pray for him. Then he continued on into the dark night with his bag of books and the $7 I'd just given him.

I wondered the rest of the night and most of this morning how much of his story was true. I've found that the books he was selling are a product of a legitimate church, but still, I have to wonder, does the love of Christ really compel us to send our children out into the cold and dark on the eve of Christmas eve to knock on the doors of strangers, and to refuse help when you so obviously need it?

Yes, Titus, believe me, I will pray for you--that you are loved and warm and safe, and that the shyness in your eyes occasionally flames to love and joy. I hope that your story was true, and that the people who you are with are your family, and not some lunatic cult, deceiving you with heresy and depriving you not only of a warm home but keeping you from the love of your family. I hope that you go to sleep each night, assured not only of the love of God, but of your own mother and father, who are nearby, and who care tenderly for you. You brought me a gift, Titus, on a dark day in my own life. I know that I do not value enough the good people and things I have in my world--how could I ever possibly hold them dear enough?

Merry Christmas, friends. Please pray for Titus.

All About Marcia

2007-12-18T15:13:00.000-06:00

Today in the house we welcome marciamarciamarcia. She's one of my co-workers, another single mom and a great lady. She has a unique read on life, is deadly calm under fire (of all kinds) and is a fabulous cook. Navigate over to her page and give her a big redblur welcome to the blogosphere!

Because She Does

2007-12-17T11:18:00.005-06:00

"Mary, she moves behind me
She leaves her fingerprints everywhere,
Every time the snow drifts, every time the sand shifts
Even when the night lifts, she's always there..."

from "Mary," by Patty Griffin

Winter Morning Drive in the Country

2007-12-17T11:13:00.001-06:00

Frost-furred lumber stacked by the roadside
waiting for hands and hammers and nails;
a slow-moving river bearded with white fog
winds by the south gate headed for home.

Winter falls softly in this part of heaven.
It creeps in on shoes that are silent as sleep.
The sky fills with grey clouds as birds huddle together
On a lamppost arm stretched out
by the side of the road.

Red leaves lie sleeping on the the floor of the forest,
crunching beneath footfalls as a man passes by.
The land settles down with a sigh for the winter,
like the last sleepy breath
of a day that is done.

Help in Time of Trouble

2007-12-13T09:14:00.000-06:00

Our Lady of Walsingham has been very gracious this week. Please visit here to learn more.

In Praise of Rutabagas

2007-12-11T15:12:00.000-06:00

Those who know me know that I eat my vegetables. They also know that I can’t abide the word “veggies” or any form of it. The word is “vegetable,” or, if you prefer, gemüse. The Germans have such lovely words for ordinary things.

But I digress. I eat my vegetables. They’re good and good for me. In the spring and summer we often make meals for days at a time out of whatever fresh and plentiful produce is available. It’s almost a game to figure out what is in season and what I can make of it that will be delicious and satisfying.

I’ve only met one vegetable I don’t like, and that is the rutabaga, also know at the swede, yellow turnip, or more precisely, Brassica napobrassica. Growing up somewhat middle-class in a large family, we ate plenty of things that our friends and classmates didn’t. I didn’t mind eating regular white or purple topped turnips (which are crisp and joyful) or the interminable crocks of dried beans, or even the beets, which tasted rather like dirt and stained the plate with a horrific magenta liquid. But I always drew the line at rutabagas. It seemed to be the ultimate in low-class, end of the line, no further humiliation than to have to peel a wax-covered rutabaga and boil it up for dinner. I recently described the taste to a friend as “a turnip, gone horribly wrong, having lain under the front porch for about three months, in the dirt, where the cats go to pee and the bugs can crawl on it with their dirty little feet.”

In the British Isles, prior to pumpkins being readily available (a relatively recent innovation), swedes/rutabagas were hollowed out and carved with faces to make lanterns for Halloween. Often called "jack o'lanterns", or "tumshie lanterns" in Scotland, they were the ancient symbol of a damned soul. This is the reason, I presume, why they taste so awful.

The only way I will really eat rutabagas without setting up a howl is in “Himmel und Erde.” This German dish, translated as “Heaven and Earth” is made up of root vegetables such as turnips, parsnips, potato, carrots and rutabagas. The other vegetables and the butter and seasonings conspire nicely to cover up the taste of the nasty swede. It’s a recipe that can make something nice out of something fairly unpleasant.

Those who know me also know what a stinking mess my life currently is. I’m moving out and on, and it’s scary, difficult and painful, and not always in that order. I worried about Dear Daughter, my family, my house, my financial situation, even the One I’m leaving behind. My stuff is scattered all over the city in various safe places. I’m homeless with a mortgage. I’m tired and scrambling to keep work and life together.

But through it all, the past 36 hours have been filled with grace and light. I’ve received help—monetary, emotional, spiritual and physical – from all sorts of wonderful people who have shown me their love and kindness in abundance and without hesitation. I try not to be surprised when God answers prayers, but when the blessings start pouring in so quickly and in such torrents, it’s astounding. I truly am not worthy of such loving-good friends and family.

One of the dear folks who have thrown her not-inconsiderable influence onto my side lately also sent me a Christmas card. I love Christmas cards—both sending and receiving them. This one is beautiful, but what it contained inside (along with her sweet message) really made my day. She sent this recipe for rutabaga cookies, with the tongue-in-cheek suggestion that I bake a batch. It was a good laugh, but there is a great deal of wisdom in her idea. Despite all of the chaos and sadness in my world right now, I have so much that is good—so many wonderful people who are showing me love and helping me to show love. Even through the darkness, we are surrounded by light. And Pat’s little funny, tucked inside a glittery card, is a nice reminder of how to make something sweet and good out of something that outwardly appears to be homely and sad.

A Long Time Coming

2007-12-11T13:49:00.001-06:00

Curiousity killed the cat
and it's not so good for me
and you.
So don't leave me a trail
you don't want me to follow.
Don't leave me clues
that I'm not meant to find.
Don't tell me lies, then
tell me I'm dreaming.
My eyes are wide open now.

As Paralysis Sets In...

2007-12-09T21:41:00.000-06:00

They say you can't go back again. I think the proper phrasing is more along the lines of "you SHOULDN'T go back again."

I've spent part of the evening re-reading old messages from the Loved One. Times were that we were happy and good to one another. I can't believe the people who wrote those things then are the people we are now.

What happened? Oh, whatever happened?

I've shoved some more things into some more boxes. My plans are still not completely defined. I keep telling myself and those around me that I'm really fine, but I doubt I'm being truthful. The coin has two sides, and I keep turning it over in my hands.

To justify my existence, I need to pack a couple more boxes.

When You Come to the Edge of Everything You Have Known...

2007-12-08T17:54:00.000-06:00

Two years ago when my mother was first diagnosed with cancer, a very wise and caring man, who also happens to be my priest, told me that when I come to the edge of everything I have known, one of two things will happen. I will either step out onto safe and solid ground or I will learn to fly.

Today, folks, I'm absolutely soaring.

I'm in early middle-age. I'm a single parent. My relationship that I thought would be the one I had for life is ending. My mom is still sick (but doing better, thanks). I'm overdrawn (how the hell did this happen? Actually, I know exactly how it happened, I just don't know how I'm going to fix it.) at the bank. Someone I know is about to get a very rude surprise about an unexpected baby (not me, folks). My tenant keeps bouncing checks on me. I'm about to move back into one tiny room at my mother's house for the foreseeable future. My car really needs tires.

Did I leave anything out? Oh yeah, it's Christmas.

Still. I'm soaring. I have so many wonderful things in my world. My Dear Daughter is so very, very dear. She knows what is going on, and she's okay. We're okay. We've redefined home to mean not "that place where your stuff is" but rather the more accurate "that place where your heart is." Our hearts are together--therefore, wherever we are, we are home.

Even if our stuff is living in a mini-storage halfway across town.

My friends are simply amazing--MelBoe, FineOldFamly and Kimby-the-book-fairy are helping me sort, throw away and pack. These are three amazing women, and I would be saying that even if they weren't solidly in my corner in this time of fiery, blazing crisis.

My friends at work are great-- they recognize enough of the challenges going on in my life right now, and have given me the encouragement I need in the right doses. They also have given me a healthy sense of practicality and are definitely keeping me busy enough to not despair. They (pronounced Illy, Meerkat, e, marciamarciamarcia, MCBA, Optimus Wicked and Stanimal) make me laugh, which is keeping my internal organs well massaged and my head on as straight as it can be for now.

My family...well, I never appreciated them enough until now. They're the best.

The rest of the world--well, it's still turning. It's not going to stop for me and my hefty bundle of issues. Eventually my parachute will open (although maybe not until I pull the reserve), but until then, I'm passing through clouds both grey and silver. It's a beautiful view.

It's also about giving up

2007-12-05T21:14:00.001-06:00

I can't really expound on this right now. Big changes. Sad times. Gonna be okay.

Public Acknowledgement

2007-12-02T14:31:00.002-06:00

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Thanks be to the Blessed Mother, ever Virgin Mary and to our patron Blessed St. Joseph, for prayers heard and answered, in so short a time and in such rich abundance.

From All Over the Map

2007-11-28T21:02:00.001-06:00

It's multitasking night at Chez Redblur. As I sit typing, I've got a copy of last year's homemade Christmas CD burning, the gingerbread is baking, Dear Daughter is doing homework and making two stuffed rabbits and an otter dance and sing to the music. I'm probably overclocking my cute little speakers, but Rufus Wainwright singing Ramsey Lewis just makes me swoon.

Things that make me laugh in the grocery store:

and, inexplicably, this:

Something about the word "frank" just makes me giggle.

Okay. I'm done now.

I had help, you know, with the gingerbread. Every holiday kitchen needs a cute little elf like this:

An Autumn Prayer

2007-11-28T18:24:00.001-06:00

For little grey squirrels,
paws clasped as in prayer across taut white bellies,
poised by the road, chewing contemplatively,
gazing toward winter,
good Lord,
oh!
are we thankful.

What I'm Learning These Days

2007-11-27T20:19:00.000-06:00

1. Helen Mirren and Julie Walters are beautiful women of a certain age, and role models for how I want to grow older (actually, I already knew this, but it's worth including).
2. No matter how many friends I make, my best friends will always be my sisters.
3. My other best friends aren't intimidated or hurt by that statement, and know exactly who they are and why I love them.
4. I'm really stronger than I ever imagined, both physically and emotionally.
5. Occasionally I really do know what I'm talking about.
6. Two quarts of steaming turkey broth will absolutely not fit into a one-liter measuring cup, no matter how badly you need for it to at the moment.
7. It's good to just shut up and listen sometimes.
8. Love comes in a wonderful array of shapes, sizes, colors and seasons.
9. Relearning how to play Baroque music on the piano (with laughably tiny hands for an adult) is worth every moment of effort.
10. Homemade whipped cream tastes really good out of the bowl with a serving spoon.
11. Walking around the quad in the afternoon sunshine saying the Rosary out loud is a beautiful and peaceful way to spend 20 minutes.
12. Carolina bluebirds flitting about an oak tree on a brisk November afternoon lift my spirits.
13. A foolish consistency really is the hobgoblin of little minds.
14. It's okay to make mistakes, but it's preferable to learn from them.
15. Holding one's impetuous tongue when confronted with a derisive and selfish remark is an art form, and one I should practice more often.
16. Praying for someone else's hurt and need makes ME feel much better.
17. More to come...

The Way Things Are

2007-11-25T10:04:00.000-06:00

Happy post-Thanksgiving Sunday, all. It's raining here; the kind of soft, susserating rain that wakes a sleeper gently, and provides a perfect soundtrack to continued dreams. We're having a slow start here at the ranch. Dear Daughter returned, a bit unexpectedly, last night from her holiday trip to New Orleans. I was in my beloved midtown with two most excellent friends, listening to three brilliant singer-songwriters ply their craft. The venue, aptly named "Otherlands," is an independent coffee shop that's been around for about 15 years now. An oasis of peace and comfort in an already-warm and funky neighborhood, it's the perfect spot for gathering, listening and contemplating.

I ran into several people from my past last night. It was so good to see familiar faces and talk of good days from a while back. I don't want to live in the past, but it's often pleasant to pay it a little visit. While I wouldn't be 23 again for anything, I like remembering that who I was then wasn't such a bad person after all.

After picking up Dear Daughter, we went back and caught the last of the show. We were up too late, but the music and company were excellent, and it's a day for reflection. It was so good to have her with me--she regaled our table with a middle-schooler's observation of breakfast at Commander's Palace, hugged the necks of people she loved and was cheerily polite to new friends. She nestled in my arms (not an easy feat for someone only three inches shorter) and snuggled while the music played on.

Today is a day to wrap up Thanksgiving and look forward to Advent, Christmas and Epiphany. I'm sorting through laundry, books, turkey leftovers, assorted memories and burgeoning plans. I have a new book of Scarlatti arrangements. I'm making a CD for a co-worker. The sponge is set for the Swedish rye bread.

I have things to do. I have a place to be.

Our Lady of the Easy Bake Oven Rides Again

2007-11-19T22:39:00.001-06:00

There's an old saying that when the going gets tough, the tough get baking. Well, maybe no one ever actually said that, but perhaps they should have. I guess I just did. Perhaps it's fall, perhaps it the stuff swirling around in my life, perhaps it's some primordial need to create, but ever since Flash the Food-Porn Mixer of Doom came into my life, I've been on a baking spree. My current medium is bread, although the girls did make two exceptional pumpkin pies on Saturday.

Since October, I've made olive bread, herb bread, cinnamon rolls (admittedly, these didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped) and pita bread. I've fed the family, the neighbors, our friends and a huge gathering at work. There's something very satisfying about the making and baking of bread, no matter what the occasion or the type.

Every culture, in every land, across history has had some form of bread. It's the most primordial of foods. A simple carbohydrate, it provides quick energy, along with a handy platform for all kinds of goodies such as butter, cheese or Parma ham.

But bread provides more than just nutrition--it's the most basic of comfort foods. Warm and yeasty, fresh-baked bread fills the house with an odor and a feeling. It says, "Come in, sit for a while. Warm up and visit. Tell me what's on your mind."

Sharing, or breaking bread with our fellow travelers on the planet is an ancient tradition. It's a sign of welcome, a message of hope, an acknowledgment that we should continue onward. In most Christian faiths, it's the ultimate symbol of love, in the Presence at the Eucharist. Tiny wafers of--you guessed it--bread, become the body of the risen Christ and feed not just the human body, but also the human soul, with a bit of gluten, a drop of water and a world of love.

I tried out my new baguette pans tonight. Too bad Blogger hasn't figured out Smell-o-Blog, because this, my friends, smells divine. I wish you all were here to try a bit of this--it's still hot and crusty from the oven. I'm dancing with joy over two simple loaves of bread. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Tonight, I have fresh bread.

Illuminated Tree

2007-11-19T16:02:00.000-06:00

I'm being lazy. I researched these trees in hopes of finding some information on why exactly they make my heart sing. There's got to be something, but perhaps it's just the way they turn such a luminous and happy yellow in the fall. I can't get past the sight of a ginkgo (sic) tree in November. This photo was made on a not-quite-rainy day.

The world is so perfect--Nature saves the very best for last. Just as those sweet, delectable thoughts of the day come to us in the close of the day, just before sleep, Autumn closes with the last bright bang of color and surprise. This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.

Defining the Word

2007-11-14T14:37:00.000-06:00

Main Entry:
in·ter·stice

Function:
noun
Inflected Form(s):
plural in·ter·stic·es Etymology:
Middle English, from Latin interstitium, from inter- + -stit-, -stes standing (as in superstes standing over) — more at superstition
Date:
15th century
1 a: a space that intervenes between things; especially : one between closely spaced things b: a gap or break in something generally continuous 2: a short space of time between events

For those of you who have been paying attention, the 8-ball has spoken. I'm worried and scared and all those good things, but at least I see more clearly now.

For those of you who have not been paying attention, well, it will be revealed in due time.

Veterans' Day

2007-11-11T19:49:00.002-06:00

Today is Veterans' Day, commemorating the signing of the Armistice in 1918 ending the Great War, now known as World War I. The conflict that in four brief years killed nine million soldiers, five million civilians and wounded at least 21 million soldiers and civilians officially ended at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. It began in 1914 with two shots fired into the chest of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir to the Austro-Hungarian empire, by Gavrilo Princip, a Serbian nationalist who felt rather keenly the disenfranchisement of his country by Austria and Germany. Veterans' Day was created so that the world would never forget the suffering and loss caused by those two shots.

Today, we remember.

My dad served in the United States Army as part of the Allied Occupational Force in Germany following World War II. Given the year was 1952, technically he was called a Korean War era veteran, although he served only in Europe. He was drafted and answered the call. He served a little less than three years, not with any particular distinction, but with the honor and integrity a young man developed in the 1940s growing up in a small Midwestern town. He came home with a scrapbook full of photos, propaganda leaflets, train tickets and pressed leaves. We still have his dog tags somewhere.

Today we planted the flag of our nation and the flag of the United States Army on his grave. They looked nice in the autumn sun. A gentle breeze was waving. We talked to him and about him. We wished he would come back home.

I know there are millions of others just like us who wish their veteran was home, safe and sound. Growing up we knew so many men and women who had served in the armed forces. These were ordinary people who responded to an often extraordinary need. Some came home to parades and celebrations. Some came home to honors and fame. Others came home to derision and violence. Others came home shattered by wounds and trauma. Some didn't come home at all.

I don't have any poppies today, but I wish I did. Maybe I can find some VFW member tomorrow selling them outside a grocery store. Tonight I'm thinking about all of the veterans I've known and know, and sending them a wish for peace and a sincere thank you. Here are just a few names. Remember them. Remember your own. Just remember. Never, ever forget.

Gordon
John Douglas
Douglas
David
Lowell
Jeffrey
Richard
William S.
Howard
John R.
Rich J.
Timothy
Howard
Tom
Michael
George
Marcia
Katie
Raymond
Amos
Stephen
John L.
Frank
William A.
Stanley
Dustin
Donald
David
Allan
Dawn
Steven
David C.
T.D.
Hal
Robert
John Z.
Shawn

Happy Birthday to the Corps

2007-11-10T16:55:00.000-06:00

Today is the "birthday" of the United States Marine Corps. I wanted to blog about this, but I'm running out of time to do so properly, so I'll have to be brief. I spent a good part of day enjoying the November warmth outdoors at Navy Lake with Dear Daughter and Grandbaby Riley. Fifteen years ago we wouldn't have been able to get a parking space. Today, there was no one there but us and three other children with a conspicuously absent parent.

Anyway, congratulations and a big "oo-rah" to a branch of the service that holds a special place in my heart. All of the Marines I've ever known have been persons of honour, courage and integrity--all three in the extreme. Our nation is fortunate indeed to be home to the Corps. Tim, Rich and Steve--best wishes to you all on your big day.