My Very First Place, Old Tables, and Grandpa

It was a galley kitchen and my first "real" apartment.   My first apartment on my own without a roommate.  The challenge?  Not the rent.  Not the smell of permanent solution for hair that permeated the apartment on Saturday mornings when the women all came and got their perms, but the fact that the door to enter the apartment was blocked by the refrigerator.  This was most assuredly a fire hazard because it literally only opened up about 15 inches.  At this point in my life there is not way I could even enter my own place.  It certainly limited my visitors to those who had small breasts, and were slightly underweight.  You could get in if you shifted your body catty-corner to the fridge, pushed slightly on the back door, all the while inhaling the most you could.

There was no room in the kitchen.  The rest of the apartment was spacious, to say the least.  But the kitchen left much to be desired.  I asked my grandfather, who at the time, was in his 80s to make me some kind of a table for the kitchen.  I don't know why.  Why would I want to sit two people in a four foot alley of  a cooking space?  It made no sense, but since he lived 250 miles away and never saw the apartment, he was glad to be asked to take part in this first step in my "adult" life.

It was, like the kitchen, long and narrow.  The legs were wooden, and the table top was not a beautiful inlaid top, like all the other beautiful pieces he made.  It was durable.  It was sensible.  It was made from left over linoleum with tiny yellow and green spots that he had from the 50s.  Yes, the 1950s and he still had the same linoleum that he had on their own kitchen table, and the counter top in their kitchen.  The legs were stained a funky light mahogany because I believe he mixed two colors of what he had around -- never a waster was he!  So it was my first kitchen table.  In very efficient manner, he had bolted the legs to the table and labeled them "A", B", "C" so I could reassemble them later, when I inevitably and hopefully, in his mind, married and reused the table.  It was, in short, wonderful.  It was wonderful because he made it.  It was funky because it was silly with it's odd top and oddly colored wooden legs.  It was my Grandfather in his sensibility.  The sensibility that got him to this country and kept many a roof over their heads.

The table rarely got used at that apartment.  I brought it to every place I lived afterwards, never leaving it behind, never not storing it lovingly.  It was such an odd shape because it fit the odd shape of that particular kitchen, it never really got used.  I still have it tucked away in my shed, with all it's legs comfortably sitting close by, ready to be assembled at any moment.

When I uncover it, I can recall how many days I sat at that table in their kitchen with the same spotted yellow and green linoleum, having chicken soup and waffles before we watched the "stories".  I can recall when I sat on the funky little step stool chair that had a step stool that you could pull out underneath.  I would rest my hand on the counter top and watch my Grandmother put her Cool Whip on the jello she had lovingly, and expectantly, made with canned fruit cocktail.  Almost always red jello, but every once in a while, she'd throw you for a loop and make green.  I'd trace the spots along the metal edging of the counter top.

I can take out that table now, all these years later, touch it with one finger and taste the jello, hear the soap operas or the "stories" as they were called.  I can remember when my grandfather finished the table I had specifically requested and given him the measurements for -- his eyes were proud.  He was the epitome of reduce, reuse, recycle well before it was cool, or really even critically necessary.  I was thrilled because it fit perfectly.  It fit better than most people who came to see me did as they came to my home.  I kept flowers in a vase on it.  I used it prepare things I made for others and took with me because no one could actually fit in the kitchen but me.  I loved that table then, and I love that table now.  Grandpa has been gone over 14 years and every time I touch that table I'm reminded of all the love and pride that went into making it for me for my very first place.  

The Storm & the Sweetness of Life

Waking up in a full anxiety attack is disturbing, but going to bed at 9 pm was probably not the best of ideas.  So, I sit and watch HGTV in the middle of the night.  My joints ache and I know the rain is coming.  When I crack open the window there is nothing but stale, humid, hot air.  No rain, just the smell of it coming.  I can hear the storm in the distance, and the dog is beside herself in anticipation because she can't get to the back of the closet where she is certain the storm won't get her in any way, shape or form.

Knitting calms me, and slowly, and expectedly the storm builds overhead.  Knit, knit, knit, yarn over, purl, purl, yarn over. The repetitive stitches take away my anxiety.  Too bad the dog doesn't have thumbs or perhaps she too would find peace in this simple, yet calming task.

When I was a child I remember storms brought this wonderful sense of adventure, and peace to my mother.  I would be terrified that the lightening would somehow come into our home and strike us all to pieces, and she would be dragging her kitchen chair to the front door, opening the door, and propping open the door, if the screen wasn't in yet.  It didn't matter what season, when the storm came you could count on my mother being there, perched, enjoying the howling windows, the drips from the roof on the steps.  She'd urge us to sit right there on the stairs going up to our room so that we too could enjoy all of natures wonders.  At night, the crickets would sing, regardless of the rain, and she would watch out the door.  She stayed at that door until the very last bit of the storm, and then back to the kitchen she would go with her chair and resume whatever she had been doing.

Sometimes at night, when I had a bad dream or there might be a storm I'd go to the top of the stairs, gazing down to see if the faint glow of the light in the family room was on.  Then I would know she was awake too.  I'd slowly walk down, and find her, with the television muted, at her quilting stand, making minuscule stitches with the window behind her open so she could hear the rain hit the deck outside, and feel the stale air that brought her, and now I, so much peace.  Her concentration was intense when she worked on her quilts as she did every last stitch on the project completely by hand.  They were works of art.  My knitting is something to calm my nerves, occasionally with the advantage of being a gift for someone thrown in.  She always welcomed me, never questioned why I was awake unless I looked disturbed.  Sometimes we'd sit and chat, but mostly we'd sit and listen, feel the air, and just be.

Tonight my breaths are deeper, the air is cooler after the intensity of the storm, and only the casual falling of a drizzle continues.  I am calm, and I can feel her so closely, almost as if she sits in this room, this chair, with me.  If I sit perfectly still, holding a breath in, I can almost feel her reading over my shoulder.  As if to confirm this feeling, at the same moment of writing that sentence I hear a roar of thunder that goes on for thirty seconds.  "Yes, babe.  I'm here.  I'm here."

I know you are, Mommy.  Tonight, I know you are.

Knit, knit, yarn over, purl, purl, yarn over.  The peace continues and my breathing comes back deeper, calmer, as I know I'm not alone tonight.  Again, the thunder rolls in the background.  Life is so sweet.

Mother's Day and Clean Sheets

Yesterday, Mother's Day, I spent it doing exactly as I wanted.  Mostly alone.  One daughter was away with her boyfriend, arriving later on in the day.  Two daughters slept late -- after noon.  The youngest went on a boat with her dad.  I folded the laundry that had become my nemesis.  I am not convinced that when my time comes and I pass that they will not find me buried under the mountains of laundry.  If, for any reason, I should disappear -- look under the laundry.  Chances are high that you'll find me, or at the very least, a clue as to whose room I might be buried under.

I puttered around the house.  I ran to Wal-Mart and the grocery store without children.  You're getting the point, probably shaking your head, wondering how I finagled this.  I make it known that the only thing I wanted for Mother's Day was that we all make a large salad together for dinner, after six o'clock.

Then, I did my most favorite thing that I do for my children, though it may not be their favorite thing that I do.  I washed all their sheets and comforters and I made their beds.  Yes, the can and do periodically, though rarely, do this themselves, I love doing it for them.  It's almost like the last way I can tuck them in bed.  The older they get the more joy I get.  I can't tuck my 20 year old in bed.  Can't pull her into my lap before bed, though I occasionally try.  I can't "chew" on my 18 year olds chin to make her giggle, though I have been known to do this as well.  Goodness knows, I cannot get close enough to my 14 year old to do anything, though every once in a while I'll feel lanky arms around my body, and a chin on my chest.  Then the six year old, who will cuddle, but usually has guinea pig shavings in her bed.  She's willing to sleep among the lovely pieces of the loves of her life, but it makes it kind of itchy for us to lay down.

So, I wash and wash some more.  Sheets and comforters are the only thing that goes into the washing machine, dryer and then out again and put away immediately.  I stretch the bottom sheet over the mattress, smoothing it out as I go.  If they use a top sheet, I tuck in the bottom, fold down the top.  I wave the quilt out a few times over the bed, and lay it down on the bed just so.  I want it lay down invitingly.  The pillow cases go on the feather bed pillows, and all is propped up.  Stuffed animals are placed back on the bed and I stand back and admire my handiwork.

Then I hope, and I imagine that when they get in bed that night that they feel the coolness of the sheets on their feet, and the pillow envelopes their heads.  I imagine they pull their blankets up to their chin, and quite frankly, I imagine them sighing, feeling like their day was wonderful, and there is more tomorrow.  I hope they know that they are truly loved, merely by the clean, freshly made beds.  That I've managed to tuck them in, even as they grow up.

The Pit Then. The Pit Now.

We've all felt it.  The awkwardness of walking past the cool kids.  I came from a progressive high school where we had a "pit", an orange carpeted area, a few steps down from the hall way, where you could sit between classes.  It, more or less, kept the crowds at bay.  It worked for the most part.  Some of us felt comfortable tumbling down into the steps of the pit, with our friends either behind us, or some in front of us, already hanging out.  We lounged, amongst the supervising eyes of the school aides, between periods to socialize, study, or just be.  The high school drama continued in the "pit".  Actually, truth be told, the "pit" probably made the drama worse because it allowed a viewing point for those passing the rest of us, relaxing, going to class.  Often the ones in the pit were kids that were cutting classes, or the ones that didn't have the heavy class load of some of the other kids.  Yet everyone who passed was scrutinized by those who sat in the "pit".

The funny or odd thing was that anyone, really anyone, could sit in the pit.  There were no boundaries in the pit.  I never felt them, and I definitely was not cool.  But once you were in the pit, you were the Judge and Jury and a pickle too.

I remember hanging out there once in a while.  It was in front of the Earth Science class and it was convenient to the girls restroom.   I could get to choir, band, math and science in the same amount of time and so it was natural for me to find someone who could or would meet me in the pit.  I never thought the pit was a social enigma.  I thought it was where you met your friends.

Then years and years later I found a friend who hated walking by the pit.  Who hated walking down the high school halls.  She remembers the angle of her head as she carried her books to her side.  I remember how funny she was when we hung out together, but when we spoke I do remember how she never did let that guard down at high school. In truth, I sadly now recall how I didn't make more of an effort to include her in my horribly dysfunctional circle at various times throughout our years.  Now, 30 plus years later, we're all at different stages.  Some of us have grown children who have babes of their own, making my comrades grandparents.  Then there are those, like myself, who still have young ones.  We face our reunion with trepidation.  What should we wear?  What we should we say?  Should we say we stayed at home to raise our children or is that not accomplished enough?  Should we try and hide the 50 lbs we've gained since high school  because there is two people in the entire class that didn't gain that weight?

I wonder if those thin people we're so terrified would bring on the same reaction if they were new neighbors that moved in down the street.  Would we turn away because they were thinner than us?  No.  We may be envious.  But most likely, we'd invite them into our homes, our lives and we'd find commonality to laugh about.  They would learn to know us as we are now, at this age, in this stage, and this period of life.  Our kids either driving us nuts, or not, and varying from day to day.  We drive them nuts with the same consistency.  Ultimately, it would be accepting.

Yet walk into a high school reunion and all the insecurities that we had at 16 or 17 come flooding back so strong that we are immobilized.  We fret for months prior to the event.  We shop for dresses that we can't afford, to the Good Will with the great deals that not only look fabulous on, are a great price, but we really will wear again.

No.  It's not the same.  My friend who I spoke to tonight about our reunion.  She is brilliant.  She is funnier than hell.  She writes in a way that every teenager would feel truly, and she writes that the middle age woman finding her way around again would feel.  She sees things that others didn't see then.  At the time she felt on the outside, yet now, as I speak to her for hours, I know that she observed so much more than the rest of us did.  The feelings are deeper and more clear.  She can describe a situation in a way that you feel you are truly there in the room.

Tonight we spoke for 2 1/2 hours, and I reluctantly got off because my youngest needed her mama's loving arms, and truly that's what comes first.  My dear friend had her arms around her baby that had fallen asleep on her lap.  So, we both had come to the same point at the same time.  But we view each other so differently.  I see her brilliance.  I see her humor.  I see her ability to view into the soul and dissect and preserve what is truly important and over look what might have been hurtful because at that point, it truly was just about age.  She can remember things for what they were.

She sees her truth.  Now, after hearing her, I see her truth.  But I also see the greatness in the beauty of what she says.  I hear what she says at 48.  I read what she reads, and as the parent of daughters, I know what her writing could bring to the world on their level, and on the level of all those women that are facing the same stages that she struggles with.  She's not alone.  We struggle.  We look to make sure no one sees our tears.  And if we're really lucky someone sees.  A woman sees -- one who knows the secrets.  The secrets that we're not supposed to admit.

We're middle-aged.  We had a miserable high school life, but didn't want to admit it to anyone in case they had a great one.  The reality is we're all in the same  pit.  But this pit isn't about judging people as they pass with the current boyfriend, or clothing.  Or trying to fit in.  Or even trying not to trip into or out of the said pit.  This pit is a gathering of women facing the second, most important, part of their life with their heads held high.

Baby, we've made it!  We're not defined with where we live, or what we do, or when we do it or we where shop.  We're defined by what we do, and how we do it TOGETHER, always.  The message we send to our daughters behind us.

So, fly, my wonderful friend -- fly from the pit, circle it and land again.  Enjoy the trip and enjoy the landing even more.  We've waited a long time to move forward!   Move over, world, we're moving up and onward!

Dear Daddy on your 75th . . . .

All of a sudden I was struck with the reality that tomorrow my father, the young, vibrant, active young dad will turn 75.  He can't be 75 because he travels every where.  Literally.  My girls will often discuss the how many countries Grandpa hasn't' been to.  There aren't that many.

More importantly, when I sat down to write down 75 wonderful things about my dad I was stuck, not because I couldn't come up with them, but because I couldn't stop.  And I couldn't possibly count the people's lives that he's touched throughout his 75 years in a positive manner, whether it just be passing through, or something more permanent.  He's generous to a fault.  He's kind.  I found out many years later that he loaned money to people that we had no clue needed it, not that he had it to lend.  I don't think he ever got it back.  I don't think he wanted it back.  He's just that kind of guy.

Sure, he's an only child -- still at 75 we have to work around schedules because he doesn't quite get the ones that the kids sometimes have days that schedules have to be changed vastly different from the originally planned.  He's not quite sure we're raising his grandchildren the way he would, but he's quick to say that he's going to stay out of it.  And stay out of it he does, until the next time it comes up.  He's diabetic and forgetful.  He adores music of all kinds, and finds wonders in each of his grand children even though he may not always understand their choices.

I remember when Keith Ryan broke up with me in 10th grade.  I'll never forget it.  I was, of course, heart broken because I was convinced we were meant to be together.  I remember it was after dinner and the dishes were done. The light over the kitchen sink was still on.  (It was always practically pitch black in our house.  Once you were out of the room, all the lights went out, except the one over the sink.)  I got off the phone and I began to cry.  I wasn't sure how I truly felt, but I knew crying would always make it better.  My poor father stood there, not sure at all, in deed, if crying was going to solve again.  But before I knew it his arms were around me and I was crying into his shoulder.  He just held me until I could cry no more.  I believe I got over Keith Ryan the next day, and I know it was because I got it all out that night with my Daddy, who is still trying to get me to call him Dad.  As a matter of fact, when I was 14 I wanted to be "different", so I changed the spelling of my name from Kathy to Kathie.  It didn't make me different, it use made it virtual impossible to get anything preprinted with my name on it.  But he still writes my cards to "Kathy" and signs them "Dad".

My sisters and I all have the same first initial -- "K" -- and one year for Valentine's day he bought a old "K" charm with a small diamond chip in it for us to share.  And share we did, because it was thoughtful.  It was silly and my own children now wouldn't get it maybe, but we did.  We laugh about it now because he denies it and so many of our stories when we are together, but he is and always will be my Daddy.

Daddy he will always be, in my mind and in my heart.  He was probably the first person I used an forbidden word to, yet he was the last person I hugged when my mother died and I had to come home to my own family, and had to leave him behind with his grief.  He loved my mother with all his heart and soul and they taught us about love, and forgiveness, and change, and cooperation, and peace.

He's a man who stands up for what he believes, who taught us to do the same.  He can be overbearing, like his daughters at times, but he is generous, and kind, and strong, and endless.  I will never, ever be able to thank my God for all the "extra" years I've had him for so long past when I had my mother.  I'm hoping for at least another fifteen years.  What do you think, Daddy?

Love,
Kathie

It Don't Matter to the Moon

I can listen to Pandora for hours while the girls putter, do what they do late at night, as they wind their days down.  I do what I do.  My husband does the things he does... as my grandfather used to say "My head is asleep before I hit the bed."  Truly he was like that, and still, in my minds eye, I remember him wearing a night cape and snoring within the minutes, or less, it took me at 8 to brush my teeth.  He slept in the extra bedroom when we came to visit my grandparents.  He'd wear his wool night cape, and I'd sleep in the other twin bed that my grandparents had in their bedroom.  My sister slept in the portable crib at the foot of the bed.  I'm sure the crib would have been confiscated by the police now for all it's insufficiencies.  Oh, those days when it was just a bit slower, easier.  There wasn't so many questions.  When your children went to bed at 12 years old, they went to bed, and you weren't worried what was going on with email, instant messages, etc.  Even if you take all those electronics and their heads aren't square, as I tell my children, there's that concern that we never had.

I remember going to bed when the other kids were still up during the summer. My parents were very strict about bedtime.  Right outside my bedroom window was the tree that we used to sit in and play.  We had a basket, tied to a string.  Two of us would climb up and play and the third would put something in the basket, and we would pull it up.    I can't remember what was so important that we had to pull up into the tree.  Perhaps it was the thousands of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches we had for years and years, and water.  Maybe if we were lucky, and it was right after shopping day, there might have been an Oreo or Ring Ding.

We would play for hours in that  tree.  It was outside my parents window, it was outside our bedroom window on the second floor.  Kind of hidden by pachysandras.  It had the perfect split in the trunk.  It was just split enough to climb, to make you feel like you might just be doing something dangerous, but not enough to make you feel like you were really doing anything truly bad.

Then there were the days that our parents let us play outside after we took our bath.  My friend, Joanne, and I would dress in matching baby doll pajamas and make up dance routines.  We spent hours and hours doing this.  I remember my own girls doing the same, though I believe they were younger, and it makes me sad to think that their innocence was gone sooner than my own was.  Sad, because part of it was because we always were so open, the girls and I.  We spoke of things that were deep secrets.  Their souls were opened to things a bit sooner than perhaps they should have been.  It was the thought that if I told them, nothing could happen to them.  Something would protect them.

The moon, it would protect them.  As they ran through the front yard playing soccer in their pajamas, or right before bed.  Their feet would be green from the grass.  We would laugh and laugh.  I would fall, inevitable.  Most of the times our nights didn't end as early as mine did as a child.  The five - or six of us, depending on how many girls were born, would sit on the front porch and watch the moon come over the pistachio tree.  We could barely see the little dipper, but we could almost see the North star.  But it didn't matter to the moon.  The moon hung were she did every night, holding those moments close to our heart.

Wilson, Wilson, I Think We Did It...

It's that scene where Tom Hanks is pulling away from the island where he landed after a terrible plane crash.  He was a Fed Express employee, and was there on that island trying to make due for years, I believe.  He had the pocket watch his fiancé gave him.  The one with her picture.  Then one day he made a raft and he left.  He faced the wind, and the unknown, and he left.   I know it's Hollywood.  I can envision 700 people on the sets next to him with fans blowing the water around, yet I am still moved by the music.  I am always moved by the music.  I can still hear it when he realizes that "Wilson" his beloved volleyball, that kept him company for years is lost at sea and he has to go on without the constant companion the he had.


Funny how we place ourselves in positions where we focus on the things that don't perhaps matter, but we think we can't do without.  The things we believe help us go on.  My feet are currently wrapped in the quilt my mother almost finished before her death.  She hand sewed each stitch, and then after she died, when it was obvious she was not going to finish another stitch my father had it bound for me and I sit, with the warmth of this blanket wrapped around my feet, knitting on the side, while on the side, watching a silly Hollywood movie.  Yet despite the absurdity of Tom Hanks finding comfort in a Wilson volleyball, I too find comfort in the absurdity of small things.  


I see piled on top of the window sill, 12 inches deep, the bowls that my daughter bought to take pictures of her baking.  It brings me joy to see them drying on the window sill, knowing that she finds joy in baking, and these simple bowls, that most likely we had in 1st grade, make her delicious treats look scrumptious to others on the internet.  That the baking that started her realizing how amazing she is, truly lead her to a field of social work.  I truly believe that she will make the difference in life that I knew she would on the day that I brought her home, 4 lbs. 8 oz.


I see my 6 year old in her black Fedora and her denim jacket that she wears every single solitary day, and I know that she brings a different kind of laughter to our lives.  When we go outside the house, call her name, and up from high in a tree we hear her call our name.  I can see her challenge whatever she views as unfair.  I can see her putting animals before herself, as she is passionate about every animal that has crossed her path, and not afraid of helping those that are in need of dire care.  It seems at 6 1/2 she understands that we all deserve dignity.


Today I got my hair cut off to barely nothing.  I no longer do it because i think it particularly looks attractive.  I do it because I know that I won't' have to do it again for two or three months.  But I see my 14 year old sit in the chair with her blue hair, knowing that she is thinking exactly as I thought when I was her age -- it wasn't what the picture looked like.  But I know she will get home put her hands through it i her own way, adding her individuality that I adore so much, and it will bring her joy.  The simplicity of a haircut, fixed by her own hands, will bring her joy.  She will bring that same joy to those around her, as she laughs with the older geriatrics with Alzheimer's that we "care" for twice a week.  She will bring them a difference in their life the day they see her, and the days that follow, because she is just that kind of young woman.


Lastly, I get a copy of a 30 minute movie of the horrendous movements of a man named Joseph Kody who murders, rapes, and steals the children of Uganda, posted on Facebook, by my 18 year old.  She is so moved that she posts this on Facebook and I know I too will be moved because we are so similar.  I think, I know, that as she grows she too will make the difference in the world that her sisters will, but differently because they are all so different.  Something I never, ever expected.  I thought they all would be the same.  They all would be exactly as I raised them.  But she will stop others, and make them look, and make them think before they act.  Because she has for me, for almost 18 years.  She is no different from her sisters.


Whatever they do, they act in passion and with truth, with energy.  Yet, their passions will continue, long after I am gone, and I will look down from wherever I am, and know that I really believe that Bob and I did it.  We raised these wonderful, special, amazing, young women to believe in the truth, to climb trees when others may not, to dress as they believe -- to have the courage to stand up for their beliefs.  To speak of the horrible when no one wants to hear the horrible, they will speak the truth, and they will act for those who cannot act.  


I am reminded of all this just from a movie about an island, a lost love, and a volleyball.  


Perhaps this mother, who cannot seem to contain her pride for what she saw today -- a love from her daughters that maybe she had a small hand in instilling in them, whether I am here to see it all come to fruition, or am somewhere off with Wilson.

An Oldie, A Goodie but Time to Move On

Just about eighteen years ago, my husband, with all his lack of music knowledge, purchased a lovely Yamaha U3 piano.  For those of you who are as unfamiliar with pianos as he was, this is the step before a baby grand.  It has the same string size but stands upright, so it doesn't take up the space of a grand piano. It was a lovely gesture, a beautiful gift on his part, and filled my hearts desire as I begin my second pregnancy, which turned out to be one of the most challenging emotionally, and physically, for me.  The piano brought me solace, and joy.  For my oldest daughter, who was two at the time, it brought her something to occasionally smash on, and sometimes gently "play", as she sat in my lap.  I babied that piano as I did my daughter.  I covered the keys with the red felt cloth, at one end heavily embroidered with "Yamaha" across it.  I had it tuned every six months as the weather changed so frequently in the South.  And, of course, I loved him that much more because this was what he wanted to give me.  A piece of me, that he didn't really understand, but knew meant so much.


One day, within the first few days of owning this lovely instrument, he exclaimed that he would like to learn to play it.  I sat down, the first few minutes explaining middle "C", etc.  Within five minutes he had given up in frustration, and said that it was mine, but he was not interested in playing it.  I understood.  Sometimes it peaks your interest, and sometimes it frustrates you for no reason.  That's the way it went with my own daughters. All four of them.  One would take to trying it, and give it up within days, and the next would show a bit more interest, yet still, after five days, would walk away, more interested in something else in her environment.  The third daughter taught herself to play, on her own, having a natural talent for music, and a built in sense of patience when the music and notes didn't come to her immediately.  Yet even she lost interest, or actually changed instruments.


So, as I watched this lovely beautiful instrument sit in my living room, doing not much else but hold up some candles, I knew it was time to pass it to someone who would truly love it and do it the justice that it deserved.  Playing doesn't come naturally to me.  Singing does.  Playing was a way to lead into my singing.  That worked for quite a while, until I discovered the guitar, which truly is an outlet for my singing, as it is portable, and much easier to learn new music on.  I made the decision to sell it, on my own, without the consultation of my family.  My husband is horrified, knowing that we may never have the resources to replace such a high quality instrument.  My daughters feel the same.


But I know that when I find the right home for it, it will be loved, and played and the notes will ring on through their house as they did in ours before I got busy, and truly, before the playing got to be too much for me to keep up with.  I will continue to sing to my hearts content with my guitar, learning new pieces daily, if I choose.  But my heart no longer lies with this lovely mahogany piece.  However, somewhere, I hear there is a little girl who is just dying to get her hands onto the lovely ivory keys that I've cared for so much with that maroon felt cover.  I am pleased to see it go to a home with love and excitement.  A bit sad, for all the memories, but I'll still have them.  How wonderful that someone else will love it with the same passion I had originally.  It got me through NICU babies, my grandfathers death, my mothers death, and now it will bring joy to someone else, not just endurance.  I am glad to pass on this legacy, truly glad.

Strong Enough to Be My "Man"

I was listening to the music as I typed and Sheryl Crow belted out "Are you strong enough to be my man?"  I was struck with the thought of my own daughters having their own "partners", their own people who should be strong enough?    What is strong enough?  Is it strong enough to make it through that first year when things are wonderful and your tears melt your partners heart?  Or is it strong enough to say no when they look at you and something that is out of your reach -- whether it be price range, emotional price range?  I remember the day I wanted so badly to adopt to a baby who was born with Down Syndrome's.  I called on the fly, to ask about the process, and they said they had a baby available to leave the next day from Texas -- was I interested?   He was so tiny, and innocent.  His future was so unsure.  My husband and I were so young, and we hadn't even thought about our own children much less adopting a child who had challenges that we may or may not be able to handle -- either monetarily or emotionally.

I said, sadly, with my heart breaking, to the lady on the phone that we were not quite ready to make the decision to adopt a child.  That we hadn't gone through the "right' procedures....  What were the right procedures?  Did we go to pray?  No.  Had we spoken quietly between us the truths, the doubts, the fears and and the realities.  The realities, that  one didn't want to adopt someone else's baby, much less one that was probably going to need much more than they themselves had in their own hearts.  We had the conversations after that phone call.  It hurt to hear the words, the truth.  It hurt to hear that the reality was that the one who I loved with all my heart was just not 100% sure, and because he were such a decent, complete person, if it wasn't 100% percent than it wasn't a chance he was a chance to take.  I had to respect that.  That at 26, he was unsure.  Now, at 48, would it be different?  Probably.  But I don't' know, because that boy, that sweet little boy is 21, almost.

Still, 21 years later, I wonder about that sweet boy.  That sweet little baby that must've smiled when someone grinned at him.  A baby that smelled so sweet, wrapped in a cotton blanket, cheap and from WalMart, but happily in someone's arms.  I adore my own wonderful, beautiful babies -- they are amazing gifts from God -- or Goddess.  But I don't forget about that little baby boy, as I stood in our office, saying to the social worker that we weren't ready.  I clearly remember the children playing outside that day.  I remember the sun shining that day through the blinds.

And I remember the doubt, hesitance, and ultimate resistance in my husband's eyes when he said, with all his heart being honest and loving, "No, I can't."

I never blamed him.  I never regretted.  But I never forgot.

The "F" word

I have four daughters all named with traditionally boys names so that when they applied for jobs their resume would speak for what it should -- their experience and education -- not their sex.  It was a very conscious decision and not one of them have ever complained, or even questioned it.  They range in age from 6 years old, all the way to almost twenty.  They have been homeschooled all their lives.  They are strong, bright, liberal, and feminist.  I am proud and amazed that I have these amazing young women in my lives.


When my fourth daughter was born my sister sent her a tiny little black t-shirt.  On it, in prominent white letters it said, "This is what a Feminist looks like".  It's about a size 18 months.  Naturally, being the outspoken, liberal mother and living in the quiet more conservative South I started putting it on her when she was able to walk at ten months.  It got more bang for it's buck when she was upright and toddling around in public, than laying in her car seat.  The initial reaction was to how adorable she was, and then they'd read the shirt.  From there it was a total guess on how the reaction would go from the people oggling my daughter's bald head, funky shoes, and outspoken t-shirt and smiling, to quite a few who walked away with obvious disgust on their faces.  (I pitied them, rather than throw something at them.  That seemed counterproductive.).  I was accused of pushing my beliefs on my children, though I see no wrong in raising them to think for themselves, I do admit to showing them the reality of what women face, and how we can change that in small and large ways.  I often challenged the older ones to speak their mind and talk of women's rights, perhaps a bit before they were ready.  Sometimes they did, sometimes they waited.  They understood clearly all the wonderful and challenging things that women have faced, and still do.  In this family, we're all still learning.


The t-shirt kept it's shape and was true to it's size, and so over the years she continued to wear it.  When someone questioned her at three what being a feminist was she replied that it meant that she could run as faster, or faster than boys.  They chuckled because it was the three year olds version, but obviously she was getting something from us.


When she was four, the t-shirt finally started to look a little tight on her arms, but despite my suggestions of making it a tank top or altering it in any other way, she refused and continued to wear her "feminist shirt".  While my first two daughters were girlie girls, from sequins and sparkly shoes at Walmart, my second two were horrified to even have it suggest it to them that something other than jeans, or shorts may be an option in their wardrobe.  I didn't care.  It's not my decision what they wear as long as it was weather appropriate and occasionally, appropriate for some type of more formal function.  (No feminist shirt to a formal wedding.)


Austen got her first pair of Converse high tops recently.  Proudly, like her sister just seven years older than her -- the closest one in age -- she choose black.  They were awesome, and went with her jeans.  But by now the Feminist shirt is really getting too small.  Her belly sticks out.  She still wears it out.  She absolutely loves it.  I have tried to find it online, but have yet to be successful.  It is apparent that this child is going to need a new one to replace the one that will eventually cut off the circulation in her body because there is no way I can take her beloved shirt from her. 


About two weeks ago we were at a playground.  I was sitting on the bench allowing her the freedom to find some playmates her own age.  She thinks she's 12 like her older sister, so her interactions with younger kids is a bit awkward, and she's a bit cynical, and not always age appropriate.  I overheard this little girl about her age talking to her as they climbed the big kid rope pyramid.  The girl quietly asked if she was a girl.  Austen looked at the girl with an obvious look of disgust and replied, "I'm a girl." Then she kept on climbing.  The girl then persisted to try and explain the wrong doings in the clothing my daughter had chosen -- black leggings, black high tops, a rust colored horse shirt and a black fedora hat she wears every day.  Her climbing friend was dressed all in pink, with ruffles and just a smattering of white.


"But you have black sneakers."  It seemed perfectly logical to this child that Austen simply must be a boy because she was wearing black.


I heard the tone of cynicism come in to Austen's voice, and held my breath.  Was this going to be the time she told the girl her opinions were "lame", as she has done at home when she is disagreeing with someone.  Or would she stand up for herself like I had taught her.  (At this point, I was holding myself down on the bench trying not to knock the kid off the equipment.  I was pretty sure that would fall under many inappropriate, as well as illegal reactions.)


"I like black.  What's wrong with that?" And on she climbed around the girl.


Little Miss Pink Frills looked back at my daughter who had now surpassed her on the climbing apparatus with a look of puzzlement in her eye.  Austen had a grin on her face, reached the top of this large roped off pyramid, and said, "Look, Mommy, I made it to the top."  I congratulated her, and she continued on to accomplish another piece of equipment, as I stood there like a ridiculously beaming.


I thought, yeah, she'll make it to the top because she too has the gumption and self-confidence she needs to stand out and up for what she knows is true.  Not only can she run faster than boys, but she can climb higher, and she can like and wear exactly what she wants, with pride.  Plus she knows the "F" word, the six year old meaning of it, and she's not afraid to use it!

His Arms Held Her Sweetly, Still

Following the footsteps of my eldest daughter, I recent began volunteering at a local respite care for people with a late-in-life onset disability.  Thinking I was merely going to spend one day a week, four hours that day helping out with the participants, I went with almost no expectations.  The first day I watched Ryan with the participants, all of us wearing name tags so that those who attended the program knew not who was volunteering and who was attending.  It was a brilliant and kind concept.  I watched her chat with people three, sometimes four times her young age.  She smiled, they all laughed together.  They colored, chatted, played a game of bingo.  Exercise time we all laughed as even Ryan, Brett and I struggled to do some of the most simplest activities, like raising our left hand over our head, not our right.


When I walked in I was determined to let Ryan have her space, and Brett and I would have our own paths in the room, our own friends to meet.  We were each guided to a table that had a little extra space for new people and more or less, we mingled with those who were there.


I met a woman, not much older than myself, maybe in her early fifties.  She was smiling, beautiful in her youth, blond hair, against my gray.  The kind of blond that was truly blond, not the out of the bottle kind. Her outfit was casually put together, classy and lovely.  She looked as though she was also someone who came every week to volunteer.  She wore lovely, expensive chocolate brown corduroys, a beautiful shirt, and on her left hand, her ring finger, a thin band of gold, worn over the years, as it was thinner in some places than others.  Obviously, she was married and had been for quite some time.  I asked her about children, but she was unsure at the moment I asked.


After speaking to her, and playing a bit of bingo with pictures instead of numbers.   After a while it was apparent her role there was a bit different than mine and my daughters.  I watched her struggle a bit to pick out the pictures -- it was between the canoe and the motorcycle.  She struggled with the differences.  There was a few moments I saw in her eyes that she was aware that she knew she was struggling.  She had been a therapist for many years, and just judging from the obvious intelligence of our previous conversation, she must have been successful because in the short time we talked, I could tell that she was so very caring or those around her.  She was much younger than the other participants at the table by twenty years or so, and perhaps that's what made her nervous.  The game was ridiculous in many ways -- there was a picture of an RV and then a picture of a motor home.  Honestly, how absurd?  Are they not practically the same things for those of us who don't struggle with memory problems?  Yet she, and the others, took it in stride, as my daughters and I played along side of the other participants.  We didn't' have chips to mark the squares so we used small pieces of puzzles.  Initially, we were going to use the side without the pictures on, using the underside of the puzzle pieces.  But this addition to the game made her apprehensive, perhaps because she was organized in her previous career and it didn't make sense that they shouldn't all face up, correctly as they were intended.  So we carefully turned them upward so the pictures on the puzzle were facing upward, then we went on with the game.


After bingo, we had lunch, and then to end the day there was a musician.  A folk singer who came with a guitar, and sang blue grass at the top of his lungs, his fingers moving on those strings quicker than I'd ever seen.  We all enjoyed it.  The coordinator even convinced a few to get up and dance with her, even those that were a bit shaky on their feet took the opportunity to show their dance steps with this tall, young, blond, sweet woman who not only loved them, but remembered everything about them from the entirety of their names, to their children's names, and their spouses names.  The rest of us clapped our hands and moved our feet in our chairs.  It was so much fun.  We had a couple of participants that would want to wander and someone would get up and go with them, ensuring their safety.  This was the end of their day, and they were ready to find their loved ones and go.


Then my friend's husband walked in.  I wasn't aware of who he was until he pulled up a chair behind her.  He rested his head on her right shoulder, kissed her head and then gently placed his arms around her shoulders so they draped over her like a sweater, keeping her warm.  She immediately kissed his forearm and held his hands.  They swayed to the music, enjoying the fast pace of the tempo.  They whispered to each other and then would laugh, sharing perhaps something from the past, or just enjoying the moment, watching the beautiful, laughing coordinator while her dancing partner shook her own hips about the room and she raised her hands, dancing with free abandonment.  The coordinator's dance partner was most likely closer to eighty and having the time of her life, as we all were.


I found myself gazing at my friend and her spouse intriguingly, wanting to know their secrets of the obvious love they still held so deeply for each other.  He kissed her on her head.  Her day there had come to end, and no doubt they had other things they had yet to accomplish, yet they never rushed out they door.  Enjoying the music, their affection, and as their joy was so obvious and continued to shine through.


Honestly, I had a hard time watching, after a few minutes.  I wondered how it would have been for my parents, had my mother lived past the 66 years that she did.  I questioned whether my own husband and I would hold each other in the loving way this couple did.  What was their secret?  Did he not get frustrated and emotional as she herself got frustrated, as I saw earlier in the day?  Did it not pain him to know that he would lose just a bit of her every day, until she no longer recognized him, nor those around her?


It was obvious they adored each other, and he held her, still, as the music ended.  Ultimately, I realized they lived for that moment, with his arms draped around her, her lips on his forearm, and then his hands.  I watched as they left, holding hands.  They laughed as they exited, and I hoped she would come back.  There was so much I could learn from her, so much joy she radiated.  I, jealously, hoped for that same unconditional love that I had been so very lucky to have had just a brief glimpse of that afternoon, as his arms held her so very sweetly, still.

Sometimes It's Easier to Wait It Out

Sometimes I think that I cannot possibly wait another moment to get into the doctor's office.  I am positive that I cannot possibly wait in another line anywhere, children crying -- not mine, for a change.  Mine are stuffed under the cart between the toilet paper and dog food.

I used to try the whole "Zen" thing -- the breathing out thing.  But mostly it got me out of breath and confused as to where I was.  Perhaps I was breathing too deeply, huh?

I used to try the going to bed early.  At first it was 9:00 just after the girls went to bed because that's when I was tired.  In the morning I realized I hadn't had a moment to myself.  So, I tried staying up later, but again, I was alone, not wanting to watch hours of mindless tv, I'd retreat to my bedroom with a stupid book.  Then after a while sometimes I'd go to bed at 5:00 hoping someone would help.  They did help, but it was the children themselves.  So now I just wait it out, put the wee one to bed and see what happens.  Tonight the littlest and I listened to Five Children and It and in just a few moments she was sound asleep.  I cuddled, kissed her, whispered "I love you.", hoping she was just enough awake to respond back.  She wasn't, she was off in her dream world.

There are commitments that you made a while ago that you were sure would go quickly, smoothly, with no hiccups.  There would be no slides, no slippery slopes.  A bump comes along.   You wait it out because, well, hell, you've been waiting it out for all these years why not wait out one more bump.  Still, the kids are screaming, and life is happening.

Then that other bump that you kind of sensed was on the horizon was fast approaching, and before you know it, you're half way up that hill, with no way down, kids in tow -- no seat belts around.  Crash.  After a bit, you assemble yourself, kind of back to the way you were.  A bit more ragged for the wear.  Someone is hurt a bit.  Take her to that doc you didn't really like waiting for, but in a few months she's back to new and even better.  We're all a bit tired, but fine.

Life goes on.  It does.  Sometimes it goes on without the people we loved the most in this world.  Sometimes it goes on with the people we're not sure we even like all that much.  But, if we're lucky, it continues.  There's a bit of sunshine over that next hump, but I think at this point, it's just easier to wait it out.

This Thing Called Aging

I watch my daughter, at 6, run arm and arm with her cousin across the field.  My fourteen year old, arms linked with her 10 year old cousin as they watch the owl demonstration.  My emotions are all over the place.  I remember with such clear vision my sisters and I running across pastures, deep in the woods, filled with tall grass and I'm sure varying snakes hiding from our quick feet.  We ran and laughed, not sure why we were running, but laughing as we went.

My father and youngest sister are with us today on this raptor demonstration, as they show us how quickly and swiftly these birds dive down for their food.  I never thought I'd quite be here, as a mother, with very gray hair, watching my own children, in essence do with the same that I did as a child.  The younger ones have no filter.  They say what they feel, and feel what they say.

I try to explain to my husband how I feel like I'm going round and round trying to find my way in this part of my life that is enjoyable, but so confusing.  Am I coming?  Am I going?  Reality, I'm halfway between.  Not quite there, with the knowledge of those who have passed before me.  Knowing my mother is physically not present, I still ask the questions to her out loud and listen quietly for that voice that I know is hers and will come from within.  It's a matter of time.  She answers, or the answer appears clear.

I have a unique situation concerning children as the age difference is so varied.  I have my four amazing daughters, aged 20, 17, 14, and 6 1/2.  Each individually at their own passages in life, trying to find their own way.  So here we are, all in one house, facing different aspects of aging and rites of passages.  We meander throughout our days, passing each other in the hall, or at the table.

Yet, still I find myself remember those summers with my sister, canoeing to the small island in the little pond across from our cabin.  Once we pretended it was Christmas and we had to make presents only from what was on the island.  We set up "house".  We dragged some logs over and made a kitchen.  We spent the entire day there, until we heard my mother call from the cabin atop a small hill the it was time to come in for supper.

I look around, how did I get from here to there?  How did I go from twelve to menopause, confused on whether I'm coming or going.  My husband is more confused, not knowing what he'll come home to -- will I be calm, on the couch in front of fire, dinner in the oven, knitting and calm, or more likely a ranging manic, not knowing how to stop myself from spinning and spinning to stop all this.  To bring those four daughters back to that island with those same three young girls, my sisters, and I so that we can do the same thing and have the same memories.  I know my childhood was wonderful.  Will they say the same theirs?

I publish this without rereading (probably a mistake) wondering if those who may read it - -have answers. Answers how to make their childhood perfect, as I make my own aging bearable, and still have a husband who loves me as dearly as I love him.

Middle of the Night Glimmer

Until I went to college, and probably for many years after, the "rule" in our home for my sisters and I was that we were to be in our bedrooms at nine o'clock, regardless of what was going on.  Of course, there were exceptions like holidays, proms, our own weddings.  You know, things of a more personal nature where our lack of presence would have been noticed.  My parents were very kind about this rule, there was no maliciousness in it.  It was really because my father worked all day, my mother was tired at the end of a long day and they wanted to watch television together alone, or just spend time without children. I can certainly appreciate this and until my eldest daughter was about nine my children were in bed at 7:30 pm, with absolutely no exception.  It wasn't until my sister, who is a teacher and far more reasonable than I in many ways, suggested that really, at nine, she was a bit too old to be going to bed when the kids on the street were still all riding their bikes in the slowing summer sun.  So, I acquiesced and for the summer months, we went a little later.

As I grew older, in high school and college my sisters and I would go out with our friends my father discovered this system with index cards.  On the table were three cards with one of our names on one of the three cards.  When we returned home that evening we would turn our card over, indicating that we were home.  Last one home, locked up the house and turned off all the lights.  I mean, all the lights.  The only light that was left on was the florescent light that was above the sink, and I believe he only left this one on so that my mother, who was disabled, didn't trip over the dog trying to find her way to the kitchen in the middle of the night for her pills or coffee while she waited for the pain to subside.

Many nights as I child I would lay in bed and listen to the noises downstairs and know that she was awake, moving around, making coffee, or maybe just getting some pills and going back to bed.  I was comforted by the movement, knowing she was there, and mostly would roll over and fall back asleep.  Yet as I got older, and less of sure of myself, either in social situations, or over school, or even just a bad dream, I would tiptoe (with no light, of course) to the top of the stairs where my sisters and I shared a room -- yes, three of us in one very large room!  I would peer down the stairs, and through the darkness of the living room, the dining room, and into the family room I could often see the glimmer of the television, playing, no doubt, an old movie.  I would creep down the stairs, hoping not to wake anyone else, for this was purely private time I treasured with my mother.  I took the route through the kitchen because with the help of the florescent light I could find the path through the dark dining room.

There she sat, Sanka by her side, watching tv.  Sometimes she would be rubbing her thighs, rocking back and forth and moaning a little.  Mostly she would be sitting quietly.  I would come around the corner and quickly whisper a greeting so not to startle her.  She was never, not once, in all those years of my interrupting her time, angry, short, surprised, or anything less than pleased to see me.

"What's the matter, baby?  Couldn't sleep?", she would reach for hand, giving it a strong squeeze as I passed to sit down.

How could I tell her I woke up and was suddenly struck with the reality that she would not always be with me.  That someday, probably years from that moment, we wouldn't have that few minutes.  But she knew.  We'd watch a bit of tv, and sometimes I shared what was going on in school.  If I tried to complain about my sisters, she would throw up her hand and say that she was not going to get between sisters,  She never, ever did, and my sisters and I remain close to this day, though my mothers been gone 10 1/2 years.

Years later when I would visit with my own children, and one of them would wake up crying, I'd peer down the steps praying that my mother would be there.  She was, and together we would soothe my daughters.  But even after I became a mother I would come down with a sleeping baby, laying her on the blanket on the couch. Sometimes I would lay my head on my mother's lap, cry and tell her I would miss her, that I couldn't imagine my life without her.  How was I going to raise my daughters to be strong, young women without her?  She would rub my hair with a strong, but gentle hand, and assure me with a quiet voice that I was a fine mother, a wonderful mother.  That she would always be with me, every single time my daughters smiled, I would know she was there.  After a little while, I would wipe my eyes, pick my sleeping babe off the couch hoist her into my arms, and lean her over so my mother could rub their hair with the same strong and gentle hand.  I could tell her kiss had the length of forever behind it.  That hers were meant to last a lifetime for them, not just a few moments as mine had, but we understood that and made peace with it long before she died.

Now when I find myself, tossing and turning in the middle of the night, not because I'm in pain any more, thanks to my fancy, dancy new hip, but because the dishes were left in the sink or I could not possibly face the laundry earlier during the craziness of the day, I sneak upstairs with a bit more light than I had as a child.  I straighten the kitchen, knowing that my eldest who has baked some amazing creation for the family but was too tired to clean will appreciate the cleanliness of the kitchen.  I fold some laundry because with six in the family someone is always looking for something.  I find peace in my time, with a bit more than a glimmer of light, but perhaps I am sharing the same reflections my mother had.  That life is short.  That we must grasp the time we have -- whether it be in the middle of the night, or in the middle of the day at a traffic light.  Some how I hope that at the end of that glimmer my girls will always be able to follow it to me, and that I will always stroke their hair, with the same strength, knowledge and courage my own mother had, reminding them I will always believe in them and always be here -- either in person or in the smile of their child's faces.  I know my mother is here right now, as I write this, not even questioning my middle of the night awakening.

In All Her Beauty and Wisdom

First Day of School

Now I remember why our parents had us go to bed early so that we could get up early for school.  Because we're tired and don't want to get up.  So here I sit, dragging myself around, attached to my 1.25 liter of diet coke, my computer, and my daughter's iPad (which is, by the way, playing Gregorian chants, because although I consider myself Jewish, I find myself soothed by the solid tones and words that are not in my language).

I let the dog out this morning, and it was cooler than yesterday.  My big girls start their college classes today and Brett asked me to stay home to wish her well on her day.  (Not her words -- mine.)  I cannot imagine missing their first day of school, which is odd, since being homeschooled they've only had a few "first days of school" -- and they were all college classes.  I cannot imagine what it would be like to send them every year off on the bus, like millions of other parents, packed with lunch, backpacks packed for their day ahead.

I have decided to enter my youngest, Austen, into a lottery for the Montessori school.  It's a local charter school, part of the public school system here.  Montessori is so very close to homeschooling and she is the only one of the four girls that seems that she may benefit in this type of an environment.  I hope she gets in for a hundred reasons.  Mostly because I think she will excel in that environment, but I think I'm ready for it as well.

Hayden will have her first day of school perhaps this summer as she enters Trident Technical College, following her sisters into an early college entrance.  I know there are some "nay-sayers" on this (my father), wondering why high school isn't more appropriate.  Perhaps she will find, after a summer class at Tech, that Wando High School is truly where she wants to go, but I want to give her the option I gave her sisters.

So, I start my morning, waking up slowly, reading my Sacred Intentions, a Jewish inspirational book of devotions, and hoping my daughters have a good first day of school.  Ryan with her determination for her future surely will be excited to get to the next step in her life now that she has an idea of where she might want to land (social work), and Brett because it is the necessary of two evils -- stay at home and continued to be home schooled or go to college and move on in her education and be with her peers.  So, off she goes this morning.  Both girls taking a piece of my heart, hoping their day will go smoothly.  I'll worry all day, as they have fun with their friends, and get their books and schedules in  order, but I guess that's just what we parents do -- worry when we send them out into the world.  I know they'll have a great day.

Mom Jeans and Silverfish

A few months ago one of the major jean companies started marketing "Mom jeans".  You know the kind that keep those extra few pounds that you couldn't quite get off after the hundreds of children you've had.  Not quite duck tape, but close.  Not having jeans in many years because I have, indeed, had four daughters, I bought into this marketing and went to the local inexpensive "big box" and purchased two pair of them at a reasonable price, under $12!

Since we do have six people in this family and are fortunate enough to have a laundry room that is larger than the white house, the laundry simply produces more dirty laundry without the help of the family.  Into the room went both pair of jeans.  Out of the room came one pair of jeans.  Oh, I loved those jeans.  I really did.  They truly did make a difference.  They were tapered without a one inch zipper that sat below my c-section scar.  They let me sit down and allowed me to breath.  I adore them.  I became very possessive over them.  I wore them only when I knew I could actually wash them myself and fold them or actually carry them back to my room.  Suddenly one pair was gone.  It vanished.  All four girls denied seeing them.  They certainly could not wear them unless all four of them wore them at one time, so I knew it wasn't a case of stealing them.  I have been known to steal my sisters clothing in college and just take them to a different state where I went to school.  This was not the case.

I thought I searched the house.  But there was one place I hadn't gone.  There was one place I was truly scared to go.  One of my daughter has an incredibly fear of those little silver wiggly bugs and so her clothing is usually strewn about her room on furniture, except the ones that have some how made it into her closet.  This was the closet I feared entering.  Yet for the good of the team, and those darn perfect jeans, I went in, turning the light before I entered, of course.  I looked around.  There appeared to be no army of silver bugs -- we call them silver fish, though I think they are incorrectly named.  Wormy and fast little fellows, they crawl before your eyes, defying even the quickest of feet.

Slowly I began to pick up pieced of denim clothing.  Ha -- like a size "0" is going to fit -- still, I took a moment to gaze at them.  I worked on.  Pile after pile of clothing that were obviously not even close to denim.  But in the third laundry basket, I spied just a small sense of denim.  Just a tiny wisp.  I pulled it, and out came the jeans that I had been missing for three months.  I was ecstatic.   I felt like I had purchased another pair and it was for free this time!

I'll never under estimate the silverfish closet.  I know my daughter is not hiding clothing in there on purpose.   In truth, she did have some sorted to go to Goodwill.  Thankfully, my "Mom" jeans were not in that pile.  Today, just after I wore my other pair yesterday -- I wear another pair today!  Mom jeans unite!

The Smell of Rain, Pine and Childhood

I set my alarm for a half an hour earlier because my goal is to ultimately spring out of bed at 5 am, ready to face the world, meditate, write, and maybe just be.  But alas, so far it has been a challenge.  Thanks to my oldest daughter who wrestled, convinced and connived my youngest that she should sleep in her own bed, I was able to get a full nights sleep.  More than likely, Ryan used good parenting/babysitting skills and warned Austen with a time-out, something my husband and I are often too tired to do at the end of the day. However, she went to bed in her own bed for the entire night and I am grateful to Ryan for taking that task on.  It is just past 5:30 and I ready for the day.

I opened the door to let the dog out for his morning constitutions and was taken back by the smell in the air.  The dampness was there, but it was mixed with pine.  It was crisp, and fresh.  I was reminded of those early morning trips we'd take when I was a child with my family to their cabin in New Hampshire.  No matter how early we'd get up, my mother was always up earlier making everyone their favorite sandwich for the trip.  She'd pack it, one bag of chips, one large bottle of soda -- a great treat in those days -- and plastic cups.  We probably only got up at 6 am, but with the darkness of the sky and the stillness of the morning, it surely felt like the middle of the night.

Still to this day I don't know why after I was woken by my father, who used the flashing the light in the hallway upstairs as his wake up call, I felt I still had to come down the steps and peer around the corner to see that my mother truly was there.  Doing what she always did, doing what she did for years, and would do for years to come.  Then my two sisters and I could truly begin our day of packing what little we needed for a short weekend in a cabin.  We never really changed our jeans -- who needed to?  So, we'd pack underwear and socks, a few change of shirts, a heavy sweatshirt, and our boots.  We were building forts and having adventures.  Sometimes we'd pile in the car and go out on "an adventure" my mother called it.  Usually that meant antiquing of some sort, but almost always ended up with ice cream.  It helped to have a father with a sweet tooth.

The cabin was six hours away and we'd leave early to miss the New York City traffic.  Before long we were half way there, and unpacking our lunch at a rest stop by some beautiful mountain side.  Lunch was always especially good, no matter what she made.  You could still feel the crispness in the air, as we were heading North and it was going to be crisp most of the days, and much cooler into the evening and night.  I remember laughing with my sisters, fighting over chips, and then my father producing for each of us, one "trashy" teen magazine, and for each one of us, our favorite candy -- an entire bag each!   In the days of no mandatory seat belts, we'd all three lie on the back of the Surburban floor and lay on our sleeping bags with our pillows, satiated from lunch, but still will to stuff a sweet, chewy bit into our mouths as we caught up on Leif Garrett, Shaun Cassidy, or whatever version of Kim Kardashian there was.   Truly, it was heaven on wheels.

This morning when I opened that door, I expected nothing but the quick swift swish of my old Newfoundlands tail as he hurried by me.  Instead, I was drawn out onto the patio and immediately I had the urge to get dressed.  I wanted to run to my kitchen to see my mother there packing my sandwich.  I knew she wouldn't be there.  I knew my own daughters would be hard pressed to get up at this hour to appreciate the freshness in the smell.  The adventure of the soon to be wet pine.  Today we'll spend our day with laundry and some historical movies catching up on homeschooling, but I will go out and take some time to remember those special car trips.  The candy that I still love, the magazines I still find myself drawn to even though I don't know the actors or actresses.

I am so thankful that it was my husband who said, "Why is your alarm going off at 5?" and I woke up enough to roll out of bed and turn it off.  I have been given this moment of remembrance and thankfulness to start my day.  I am thankful for this day, today and everyday that I have forward.  May you all have the crisp brightness in your day!  

Something's Achangin', For the Better

It's been a slow, crawling change.  I've almost not noticed.  Many, many times i haven't noticed it.  I've been too involved in the unimportant, the "little" things -- like in twenty years, dirty dishes are going to matter.  I have four funny, silly, wonderful, bright daughters.  They, like myself, can be a handful.  We have, collectively 18 pets, and of course, enormous vet bills.  All in good time, all in good time.  Despite my wonderful husband's inherent uninterested in animals, when one of the guinea pigs got her leg caught in a hammock, it was he who said, "How can you put a price on a life -- even hers?" So, $750 later little Nellie's leg was amputated, only to have had the infection infiltrate her body, beyond what we could help and she passed away a week later.  She is buried in our yard, with quite a few other guinea pigs.  (May they never dig up a yard for anything!)  Did he say "I told you so"?  No.  For the spunky little pony, with penal cancer, it's chemo therapy periodically, so he's not in pain, though likely it has spread.  Again, no repercussions.

My writing, which was so much of my soul, for all of my life, took at back seat to anxiety, mental depression, alcohol, dirty laundry, dishes, and the silly mundane things.  Today I read the story of a girl, a wonderful girl, creative, vibrant who was born just two weeks prior to my Brett, and died just shortly after her 16th birthday of thyroid cancer.  Yet there are videos of her laughing with her favorite author.  Her Facebook page shows her joy in life.  This summer we lost a very dear friend who could no longer bear what pain she had, and took her life at 20 years old.  Kiki was a live wire, and one who is truly a part of our daily lives, certainly mine as I watch, get frustrated with, and ultimately, love my own four daughters.

So, it's time to get off my duff, and be thankful to my Higher Power that I have what I have.  That I'm sober, that I can see the sunlight today and feel the crisp air that the morning brought with it.  It truly is a time for changing my outlook in life, and for life, for that's all we have.  Today.  May you find peace and joy in your day!