Drinks at the Christmas Café
The last half of my first grade year
we lived with my mother’s parents
their home overlooking Puget Sound
my mom, dad and four kids under seven
packed sardine-like
in a basement bonus room
with pine paneling and a dry bar
the liquor cabinet had been relocated
to safer climes upstairs
but the shelves behind the bar
remained populated with teacups
shot glasses, saltshakers, vases
crystal-hung candlesticks, figurines
and a porcelain Christmas tree
with electric lights
my family moved into a rental
before I started second grade
but by then I had already found my place
as proprietor and hostess extraordinaire
of the Christmas Café
open Sunday afternoons
with special sleep-over hours
in my little world within itself
patrons sipped their drinks
perched on woven-rope barstools
Stevie Wonder sang Sir Duke
on the transistor radio
hand-lettered menus announced our specials
(Cheetos and dry-roasted peanuts)
and the drink of the house
(homemade lemonade
garnished with fresh mint
and strawberries in season)
ginger ale and cranberry juice
available upon request
Nana gave me the run of her ornaments
tinsel, garlands and lights
kept me stocked in lemonade, peanuts, Cheetos
colored toothpicks and swizzle sticks
and in the off hours I cozied up to Grandpa
in the brown vinyl Barcalounger
watching NHL, Wild Kingdom
Barney Miller and ballet
when I was nine I learned
the meaning of passed away
saw a stranger in a casket
wearing Grandpa’s tie
with the watercolor seagulls
we still had sleepovers
but Nana got up early
cooked the eggs and bacon, while Max
their long-suffering German shepherd
wagged his tail, hoping for a handout
within a year, someone broke in
stole Grandpa’s distinguished flying cross
along with some cash and jewelry
Nana moved to a condo
a few miles away
and so ended the Christmas Café
a few years ago I was in town, drove by
the house is unrecognizable from the street
and I can only wonder
if it still has a bonus room in the basement
with dry bar and pine paneling.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Friday, April 05, 2013
Sunday, November 18, 2012
LV-AZ trip, part 1
At
the beginning of the year we found ourselves with an unexpected surplus
of funds, which I talked Jim into earmarking for a trip to visit my
dad and
step-mom, who moved to Tucson around the same time we moved to
Ellensburg. We see them several times a year, but the visits are
usually short--often when they are passing through on the way to
or from Seattle. Three years ago Dad was diagnosed with kidney cancer
and is now in remission, and I didn't want to wait any longer for a
nice, relaxed visit at their place so the kids could build some fun
memories.
In the ensuing months, we looked at different options and finally decided to fly into Las Vegas, where Jim's brother John lives with his family, and rent a car there for the drive to Arizona, with some sight-seeing along the way. We tried to strike a balance between fun time with family and educational experiences for Jimmy and Audrey, so they'd still be learning even while we took two weeks off from our regular school schedule.
After trying (and failing) to find good airfares for the beginning of September, we moved the trip to the end of October, which proved to be a perfect time to travel--great weather, moderate temperatures, and no crowds at any of the more touristy places we went.
We flew from Pasco to Las Vegas on the Monday before Halloween. Jimmy was immediately mesmerized by all the lights, and especially by the Stratosphere. "Las Vegas is beautiful," he enthused. I'm glad he's young enough for it to be magical; it isn't for me anymore.
Tuesday afternoon we wandered around the more G-rated portion of the Strip, visiting the M&M and Coca-Cola factory stores and the fountain show at Bellagio, which was the highlight of the day.
On the afternoon of Halloween, we went to the Springs Preserve (which I highly recommend) with the kids' Aunt Chantalle and cousins Mariska and Jack. Unfortunately, because the preserve was hosting a Halloween party that evening, they closed at 3 p.m. We only got to spend about an hour and a half there, just long enough to look around the Origen Museum.
The kids particularly enjoyed a simulated flash-flood exhibit, but we're definitely going to have to go back on our next trip so they can see the outside collections of wildlife and local habitats.
That evening, the kids dressed up and went trick-or-treating with their cousins.
Bright and early Thursday morning, we hit the road. Mid-morning we stopped at Hoover Dam to look around and let the kids stretch their legs. The last time I drove over the dam was in the late 90s, when it was still on the main route of U.S. 93 to Arizona.
While the visitor center offers tours, we decided that the kids' limited attention spans and our need to get back on the road would make it more prudent to look around on our own--which we did, and it was a good call.
Jimmy was fascinated by the history of the dam and completely engrossed by all the informative plaques posted at various points.
However, by the time we got halfway across (where we could have one foot in Nevada and one in Arizona), Audrey was done and ready to head back to the car for a snack.
In the ensuing months, we looked at different options and finally decided to fly into Las Vegas, where Jim's brother John lives with his family, and rent a car there for the drive to Arizona, with some sight-seeing along the way. We tried to strike a balance between fun time with family and educational experiences for Jimmy and Audrey, so they'd still be learning even while we took two weeks off from our regular school schedule.
After trying (and failing) to find good airfares for the beginning of September, we moved the trip to the end of October, which proved to be a perfect time to travel--great weather, moderate temperatures, and no crowds at any of the more touristy places we went.
We flew from Pasco to Las Vegas on the Monday before Halloween. Jimmy was immediately mesmerized by all the lights, and especially by the Stratosphere. "Las Vegas is beautiful," he enthused. I'm glad he's young enough for it to be magical; it isn't for me anymore.
Tuesday afternoon we wandered around the more G-rated portion of the Strip, visiting the M&M and Coca-Cola factory stores and the fountain show at Bellagio, which was the highlight of the day.
On the afternoon of Halloween, we went to the Springs Preserve (which I highly recommend) with the kids' Aunt Chantalle and cousins Mariska and Jack. Unfortunately, because the preserve was hosting a Halloween party that evening, they closed at 3 p.m. We only got to spend about an hour and a half there, just long enough to look around the Origen Museum.
The kids particularly enjoyed a simulated flash-flood exhibit, but we're definitely going to have to go back on our next trip so they can see the outside collections of wildlife and local habitats.
That evening, the kids dressed up and went trick-or-treating with their cousins.
Bright and early Thursday morning, we hit the road. Mid-morning we stopped at Hoover Dam to look around and let the kids stretch their legs. The last time I drove over the dam was in the late 90s, when it was still on the main route of U.S. 93 to Arizona.
While the visitor center offers tours, we decided that the kids' limited attention spans and our need to get back on the road would make it more prudent to look around on our own--which we did, and it was a good call.
Jimmy was fascinated by the history of the dam and completely engrossed by all the informative plaques posted at various points.
However, by the time we got halfway across (where we could have one foot in Nevada and one in Arizona), Audrey was done and ready to head back to the car for a snack.
The new bridge was really spectacular from below, but sadly, we couldn't see beyond the high barriers on each side as we drove over it and into Arizona toward the Grand Canyon.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Busy
Since the last post, my attention has been consumed by two things: the garden and the reunion. By the end of June I was able to get all my seeds and starts in the ground and begin the blessedly easy cycle of maintenance: water, weed, repeat. Made even simpler by the fact that my father-in-law takes care of the watering for us, since our garden is in his back yard.
With the garden under control, I was able to turn my efforts to getting ready for the Cottrell-Lindstrom reunion in Grayland. The biggest challenge was packing for me and the kids, because one never quite knows what to expect from the weather in Grayland. So I packed too many clothes and was grateful we mostly used the half of them that included shorts and t-shirts.
We've been home since Sunday night. The better part of this week has been unpacking and shaking the sand out of everything; then sorting, washing, folding and putting it all away.
All that work? So worth it!
With the garden under control, I was able to turn my efforts to getting ready for the Cottrell-Lindstrom reunion in Grayland. The biggest challenge was packing for me and the kids, because one never quite knows what to expect from the weather in Grayland. So I packed too many clothes and was grateful we mostly used the half of them that included shorts and t-shirts.
We've been home since Sunday night. The better part of this week has been unpacking and shaking the sand out of everything; then sorting, washing, folding and putting it all away.
All that work? So worth it!
Friday, April 13, 2012
NaPoWriMo #1: tempus fugit
My Nana used to say, "Tempus fugit." It's Latin for "time flees"--which over the years has turned to "time flies". Once again, she's provided me inspiration to write.
Tempus Fugit
I woke up this morning
to the day already gone
held in my arms
my son of seven months
so aware of how few days
I have left to feed him
from my own breasts
before he pushes me away
and turns to more grown-up fare.
It is the same hand pulling him close
that holds the spoon, the cup
teaching him to feed himself
the same heart wanting him
to stay small just a while longer
that will let him go
one day at a time
that will still be letting go
long after he has little ones of his own.
Tempus Fugit
I woke up this morning
to the day already gone
held in my arms
my son of seven months
so aware of how few days
I have left to feed him
from my own breasts
before he pushes me away
and turns to more grown-up fare.
It is the same hand pulling him close
that holds the spoon, the cup
teaching him to feed himself
the same heart wanting him
to stay small just a while longer
that will let him go
one day at a time
that will still be letting go
long after he has little ones of his own.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Us, 2011
For the past year, Jim has been on this kick of wanting to take family pictures every month so we can see how much the kids are growing and changing. I'm not as camera-shy as Jimmy, but I confess I don't particularly enjoy having my picture taken because I'm seldom satisfied with how I look in snapshots--so it hasn't broken my heart that most months Jim has forgotten.I should have known it it was coming, though, that he'd want to send out Christmas cards with a family picture. I decided this would be a great exercise for me in applying the whole "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change" mantra... so I agreed to do it, with a few conditions: please, no snapshot of us taken inside our dark, poorly lit house; and give me enough warning for me to slap on some makeup and fix my hair.
Of course, no one shot caught all of us looking our best, but in this particular one we all looked presentable, well-groomed and well-lit in the late December afternoon sunlight. Success!
Friday, August 19, 2011
Dinner paradigm shift
To say my relationship with food is complicated is an understatement, and of all the things that perplex me, cooking dinner tops the list. I love to eat, to cook for the holidays, and to cook for company or take dinner to friends when they're sick or have had a baby. When I know the people I'm cooking for will enjoy what I'm preparing, I find myself taking creative pleasure in trying new dishes and experimenting to improve old favorites. Making everyday dinners, though, is at best a perfunctory task, and most nights frustrating and exhausting.
I can't pinpoint the precise time I started to dread dinner, but I can trace it back to puberty, when my mom went back to college and work. I had to take on dinner duty several nights a week and like a typical teen, I chafed at the unwanted responsibility. That early resentment has informed my attitude about cooking dinner ever since.
When I first got married, it was challenging to cook for a husband who had strong prejudices against certain foods (many of them my favorites) but was reluctant to tell me for fear of offending his new bride. During the early years of our marriage, I struggled to find things we both liked while still injecting some variety into our menu; I could only eat spaghetti so many nights a week. I found a solution that seemed to work for a while: I created a monthly meal calendar of recipes we both could live with, so we only ate the same dish once a month.
When we had children, though, the monthly meal calendar no longer seemed to work. Not only were we on a tighter budget, but even more challenging, I had three disparate palates besides my own to satisfy. Some nights, out of desperation, I became a short order cook, making one meal for me and Jim and two additional, separate meals for Jimmy and Audrey. Even then, no one seemed pleased--especially not me.
Jim and I have come up with a few strategies to cope, but none of them is a complete fix. Each week I sit down with him, the kids and the ads from the local grocer, and ask for their input in deciding on what dinners we'll eat for the week. That way I can try to cater to their requests while taking advantage of what's on sale.
Each child also has one night a week that is "their" night: they get to choose what's for dinner--and originally the idea was for them to help cook dinner, too, though I've been less successful at implementing that part of the plan. Often, however, I still wind up preparing a separate meal for at least one person because Audrey will request chicken nuggets every time it's her night, and no one else likes them--or she refuses to eat what Jimmy has chosen for his night. Even with one night where they do get to choose, there are still six nights of "But Mo-om, I don't like this," and it wears me down. I look at blogs, food shows, and my go-to website, Allrecipes.com, and try to introduce new dishes, but it's a challenge to find ones that make everyone happy.
So, we buy a lot of Dino-nuggets at Costco for Audrey--and make a lot of peanut-butter-Nutella sandwiches for Jimmy.
Meanwhile, my resentment about cooking dinner has continued to grow. My blood pressure rises automatically at 5 p.m. As a matter of course, I tend to banish everyone from the kitchen while I prepare dinner just to have some peace and quiet so I can tend to a task I don't enjoy as quickly as possible. I am usually short with everyone while I cook and during the entire meal. If we're in a hurry to get somewhere after dinner (cub scouts, soccer practice, piano lessons), I get even more stressed out.
Add pregnancy to the mix... and yeah, the last several months have been rough. Jim has taken pity on me and we usually eat out about once a week, or he gives me a break by doing the cooking.
The upshot of all this is I'm suddenly finding myself in a place where I feel ready to change things up. Our dinner problem has been going on for years now, and I have had no idea how to fix it, but I want to--and I want a permanent fix.
If it's me that has to change for it to get fixed, so be it. While the timing isn't ideal because I'm pregnant and don't have a lot of energy, somehow being in a place in my life that is intrinsically creative (i.e., nurturing a new life) is helping me to think creatively in terms of solving this problem. I've been brainstorming, reading, bouncing ideas off Jim, and tweaking the things that are already working to see if I can take them further.
I just started reading a wonderful cookbook, Mad Hungry: Feeding Men and Boys, by Lucinda Scala Quinn. Most of the recipes are for delicious but uncomplicated meals with basic ingredients--but even if none of them appeal to our family, what I'm really going to take away from the book is the author's philosophy that well-made meals can be an extension of our love for our families only when they are prepared joyfully and used as a teaching and bonding time between parents and children. Tonight we're test-driving, at Jimmy's request, a recipe from the book for short ribs, and I'm going to do my best to budget my time and have him in the kitchen with me.
I want dinner to be fun again. For all of us.
I can't pinpoint the precise time I started to dread dinner, but I can trace it back to puberty, when my mom went back to college and work. I had to take on dinner duty several nights a week and like a typical teen, I chafed at the unwanted responsibility. That early resentment has informed my attitude about cooking dinner ever since.
When I first got married, it was challenging to cook for a husband who had strong prejudices against certain foods (many of them my favorites) but was reluctant to tell me for fear of offending his new bride. During the early years of our marriage, I struggled to find things we both liked while still injecting some variety into our menu; I could only eat spaghetti so many nights a week. I found a solution that seemed to work for a while: I created a monthly meal calendar of recipes we both could live with, so we only ate the same dish once a month.
When we had children, though, the monthly meal calendar no longer seemed to work. Not only were we on a tighter budget, but even more challenging, I had three disparate palates besides my own to satisfy. Some nights, out of desperation, I became a short order cook, making one meal for me and Jim and two additional, separate meals for Jimmy and Audrey. Even then, no one seemed pleased--especially not me.
Jim and I have come up with a few strategies to cope, but none of them is a complete fix. Each week I sit down with him, the kids and the ads from the local grocer, and ask for their input in deciding on what dinners we'll eat for the week. That way I can try to cater to their requests while taking advantage of what's on sale.
Each child also has one night a week that is "their" night: they get to choose what's for dinner--and originally the idea was for them to help cook dinner, too, though I've been less successful at implementing that part of the plan. Often, however, I still wind up preparing a separate meal for at least one person because Audrey will request chicken nuggets every time it's her night, and no one else likes them--or she refuses to eat what Jimmy has chosen for his night. Even with one night where they do get to choose, there are still six nights of "But Mo-om, I don't like this," and it wears me down. I look at blogs, food shows, and my go-to website, Allrecipes.com, and try to introduce new dishes, but it's a challenge to find ones that make everyone happy.
So, we buy a lot of Dino-nuggets at Costco for Audrey--and make a lot of peanut-butter-Nutella sandwiches for Jimmy.
Meanwhile, my resentment about cooking dinner has continued to grow. My blood pressure rises automatically at 5 p.m. As a matter of course, I tend to banish everyone from the kitchen while I prepare dinner just to have some peace and quiet so I can tend to a task I don't enjoy as quickly as possible. I am usually short with everyone while I cook and during the entire meal. If we're in a hurry to get somewhere after dinner (cub scouts, soccer practice, piano lessons), I get even more stressed out.
Add pregnancy to the mix... and yeah, the last several months have been rough. Jim has taken pity on me and we usually eat out about once a week, or he gives me a break by doing the cooking.
The upshot of all this is I'm suddenly finding myself in a place where I feel ready to change things up. Our dinner problem has been going on for years now, and I have had no idea how to fix it, but I want to--and I want a permanent fix.
If it's me that has to change for it to get fixed, so be it. While the timing isn't ideal because I'm pregnant and don't have a lot of energy, somehow being in a place in my life that is intrinsically creative (i.e., nurturing a new life) is helping me to think creatively in terms of solving this problem. I've been brainstorming, reading, bouncing ideas off Jim, and tweaking the things that are already working to see if I can take them further.
I just started reading a wonderful cookbook, Mad Hungry: Feeding Men and Boys, by Lucinda Scala Quinn. Most of the recipes are for delicious but uncomplicated meals with basic ingredients--but even if none of them appeal to our family, what I'm really going to take away from the book is the author's philosophy that well-made meals can be an extension of our love for our families only when they are prepared joyfully and used as a teaching and bonding time between parents and children. Tonight we're test-driving, at Jimmy's request, a recipe from the book for short ribs, and I'm going to do my best to budget my time and have him in the kitchen with me.
I want dinner to be fun again. For all of us.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Family portrait redux
Audrey rendered this portrait of our family last week on Jim's whiteboard. It reminded me of a similar picture created by her brother, four years ago. From left to right, that's me, Audrey, Jimmy and Jim. In case you couldn't tell.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
NaPoWriMo #16: family history
So, I'm still behind--by even more, now. I've been tired this week and have had to cut back where I could (sorry, Ruth). But I'm still committed to this, and am not giving up (not yet!)
Today's poem started coming to me when I woke up at 6 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. I've been working at it off and on all morning. It feels like there are still some pieces that may be missing, but I don't know what they are. Maybe a whole other poem? We'll see. But here's the piece that makes sense now.
Gold Rush
In August 1897
my great-great-grandfather
left Seattle aboard the steamer Rosalie
made his way north with the horde
in what he called
“the great race for gold”
by way of Skagway, the Dyea Trail
Sheep Camp, Chilkoot Pass
Lake LeBarge, Yukon River
finally reaching Dawson City
later that October.
He kept a diary, wrote
how he learned the use of gum boots
was to keep his feet not dry, but warm
how he paid 75 cents at Sheep Camp
for a meal of bacon and beans
hot biscuits and coffee
how he missed his son and two daughters
those “dear ones” left behind
how he packed boat lumber on his back
up Chilkoot Pass
rather than pay five cents on the pound
for a packer to do it.
The diary stops after January 11, 1898.
What he didn’t write was
how his wife returned with the children
to her parents in Massachusetts
before the end of 1897
how he worked as a clerk in Dawson
even after staking his claim
how he went south after the gold rush
worked as an architect in California
married again twice
how he mailed the diary
to his youngest daughter
but never saw her again
how he counted the cost
of the load he chose
one he couldn’t pay someone else
to carry.
Today's poem started coming to me when I woke up at 6 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. I've been working at it off and on all morning. It feels like there are still some pieces that may be missing, but I don't know what they are. Maybe a whole other poem? We'll see. But here's the piece that makes sense now.
Gold Rush
In August 1897
my great-great-grandfather
left Seattle aboard the steamer Rosalie
made his way north with the horde
in what he called
“the great race for gold”
by way of Skagway, the Dyea Trail
Sheep Camp, Chilkoot Pass
Lake LeBarge, Yukon River
finally reaching Dawson City
later that October.
He kept a diary, wrote
how he learned the use of gum boots
was to keep his feet not dry, but warm
how he paid 75 cents at Sheep Camp
for a meal of bacon and beans
hot biscuits and coffee
how he missed his son and two daughters
those “dear ones” left behind
how he packed boat lumber on his back
up Chilkoot Pass
rather than pay five cents on the pound
for a packer to do it.
The diary stops after January 11, 1898.
What he didn’t write was
how his wife returned with the children
to her parents in Massachusetts
before the end of 1897
how he worked as a clerk in Dawson
even after staking his claim
how he went south after the gold rush
worked as an architect in California
married again twice
how he mailed the diary
to his youngest daughter
but never saw her again
how he counted the cost
of the load he chose
one he couldn’t pay someone else
to carry.
Monday, October 18, 2010
K-K-K-Katy
When I was twelve, I went to Detroit with my Nana. This trip was memorable for so many reasons, not the least of which was because it was my first time so far away from home without my parents. It was also my debut with pierced ears, pantyhose and high heels. We stayed at the RenCen with Auntie Joan (who was actually my mother's cousin) and Joan's daughter Virginia. And, most memorable of all, it was the first (and last) time I recall meeting my great-grandfather, Amos Earle Carle.
His health was poor, so our visit at his home wasn't long, but while we were there, he sang "K-K-K-Katy" to me. I had heard it before, over the phone, but hearing him sing it to me in person was so different. I can't remember why, but I happened to have a tape deck and recorded him. I still have the tape, tucked away in a box somewhere.
K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the cowshed,
I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door.
It's an old World War I tune, written and composed by Geoffrey O'Hara. I'd never actually heard the entire song until tonight, when I googled it. Buddy Clark recorded this version in the 1930s:
Unfortunately, I also have a rather squicky memory of my middle school gym teacher Mr. Watson singing this song to me just a few years later. The same one who would look down the girls's shirts when we did our push-ups. Ewwww.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Commissioned
Back in May, my mom approached me and asked me to write a poem for her. Not just any poem, but something for a specific event, with a specific audience. She's a nursing instructor at Highline Community College, just south of Seattle, and she wanted me to write a poem for her department's pinning ceremony.
My mother, aunt, and grandmother are all nurses. So, while I'm not one myself (ix-nay on the bodily fluids), I've always had a respect for them and the sense of calling my mom feels about what she does. I remember the end of my junior year in high school when she graduated with her RN, and all of us kids loaded into our station wagon to attend her pinning ceremony at SPU. There was something almost sacred about the lighting of the candles at the end, and I've never forgotten it.
For a few weeks before my miscarriage, I tried submitting the poem to several different nursing publications, and so I held off posting it here (I've gotten in trouble recently from one place in particular for trying submit work that I had published previously on my blog). I pretty much ran out of steam on trying to get it published, so here it is.
By the way, the reference to the "house of misery" in the first line of the fifth stanza is a nod to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem about Florence Nightingale, "Santa Filomena".
The Keepers of the Lamp
We, the keepers of the lamp,
pass this gleaming flame of knowledge
from our practiced hands to yours.
May you see farther by it than we have,
lighting the way for those in your care
and one day kindling its glow in those you will teach.
May you always keep your lamp filled
with the pure oil of compassion,
which burns hot, clear and long.
May you care faithfully for your own vessel,
that in darkness you may bear light
without growing dim or going out.
May you tread softly in the house of misery,
for its beds are full and a careless footstep
can crush a mending spirit.
With hope and pride, we pass to you
this calling to listen, to care, to heal
for you are now, with us, the keepers of the lamp.
My mother, aunt, and grandmother are all nurses. So, while I'm not one myself (ix-nay on the bodily fluids), I've always had a respect for them and the sense of calling my mom feels about what she does. I remember the end of my junior year in high school when she graduated with her RN, and all of us kids loaded into our station wagon to attend her pinning ceremony at SPU. There was something almost sacred about the lighting of the candles at the end, and I've never forgotten it.
For a few weeks before my miscarriage, I tried submitting the poem to several different nursing publications, and so I held off posting it here (I've gotten in trouble recently from one place in particular for trying submit work that I had published previously on my blog). I pretty much ran out of steam on trying to get it published, so here it is.
By the way, the reference to the "house of misery" in the first line of the fifth stanza is a nod to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem about Florence Nightingale, "Santa Filomena".
The Keepers of the Lamp
We, the keepers of the lamp,
pass this gleaming flame of knowledge
from our practiced hands to yours.
May you see farther by it than we have,
lighting the way for those in your care
and one day kindling its glow in those you will teach.
May you always keep your lamp filled
with the pure oil of compassion,
which burns hot, clear and long.
May you care faithfully for your own vessel,
that in darkness you may bear light
without growing dim or going out.
May you tread softly in the house of misery,
for its beds are full and a careless footstep
can crush a mending spirit.
With hope and pride, we pass to you
this calling to listen, to care, to heal
for you are now, with us, the keepers of the lamp.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Good news
First, let me just wish my small but faithful band of readers a very Happy New Year full of peace, good health and plenty.
I'm so glad to be ending the year on a high note. One of the things I haven't mentioned before that made this a rough winter was finding out back in mid-November (in fact, the same week I found out I was pregnant) that my dad has kidney cancer. Fortunately, they caught it very early.
This morning my dad had surgery to remove the tumor and the operation was successful. He's still waiting on biopsy results; hopefully the doctors were able to remove all the malignant tissue.
Oh, and more happy news to ring in 2010: on January 15, Every Day Poets will be publishing a new improved version of my poem "Waiting for Charon." Circle the date!
I'm so glad to be ending the year on a high note. One of the things I haven't mentioned before that made this a rough winter was finding out back in mid-November (in fact, the same week I found out I was pregnant) that my dad has kidney cancer. Fortunately, they caught it very early.
This morning my dad had surgery to remove the tumor and the operation was successful. He's still waiting on biopsy results; hopefully the doctors were able to remove all the malignant tissue.
Oh, and more happy news to ring in 2010: on January 15, Every Day Poets will be publishing a new improved version of my poem "Waiting for Charon." Circle the date!
Monday, November 16, 2009
Running away from home
A while ago Jimmy started asking me when we could go back to the ocean. He must have known somehow I needed to get out of town--or maybe he was needing a change of scene as much as I was. I've been plotting a trip for over a month now, but then we all got sick and I had to wait until everyone was feeling better, hoping desperately we could make it before the mountain passes got hit with nasty winter storms.
Last Wednesday afternoon I loaded up the car with snacks, blankets, pillows, coats, hats, mittens, extra changes of clothes, waterproof boots, plastic pails and shovels, and headed west with Jimmy and Audrey. Jim had already taken off a few sick days, so he stayed in town to work.
We spent Wednesday night at my mom's, just south of Seattle, and then left in the morning for Grayland. When we got there, the weather was great for this time of year: partially cloudy, hardly any wind, and in the mid-50's. We had lunch at my great-aunt's house with her sons David and Francis, her daughter Anne, Anne's husband Eric and son Quinn, and some friends who were helping with the cranberry harvest. Harvest had just ended the day before, but they were busy with clean-up work.
Anne gave us a tour of the bogs, machinery and work sheds, and showed Jimmy how the cranberry vines are trained to grow in one direction and don't like to be "rubbed the wrong way", just like a cat likes be petted in the direction its fur grows. Jimmy had a great time running along the boards covering the irrigation ditches and jumping from side to side.
Here's Audrey with Anne and Francis.
She warmed right up to Anne and let her carry her around the bogs.
Before we left, Anne helped us sort a couple pounds of berries to take home so Jim can make homemade cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving. Thank you, Anne! Then we headed to the beach. It was so beautiful, I just stood and breathed everything in.
Jimmy didn't waste any time in starting to hunt for seashells and other finds. I put the kibosh on any crab shells (which stunk up our car for a week after our last ocean trip), but he found some snail shells, hairy cockles, and a very cool volcanic rock with lots of holes in it.
More beach combing.
It was really a perfect day, and I loved being there in that perfect place with Jimmy and Audrey: shreds of blue against the shell-colored clouds with shafts of sun filtering through, all reflected in the mirror of water on sand.
Last Wednesday afternoon I loaded up the car with snacks, blankets, pillows, coats, hats, mittens, extra changes of clothes, waterproof boots, plastic pails and shovels, and headed west with Jimmy and Audrey. Jim had already taken off a few sick days, so he stayed in town to work.
We spent Wednesday night at my mom's, just south of Seattle, and then left in the morning for Grayland. When we got there, the weather was great for this time of year: partially cloudy, hardly any wind, and in the mid-50's. We had lunch at my great-aunt's house with her sons David and Francis, her daughter Anne, Anne's husband Eric and son Quinn, and some friends who were helping with the cranberry harvest. Harvest had just ended the day before, but they were busy with clean-up work.
Anne gave us a tour of the bogs, machinery and work sheds, and showed Jimmy how the cranberry vines are trained to grow in one direction and don't like to be "rubbed the wrong way", just like a cat likes be petted in the direction its fur grows. Jimmy had a great time running along the boards covering the irrigation ditches and jumping from side to side.
Here's Audrey with Anne and Francis.
She warmed right up to Anne and let her carry her around the bogs.
Before we left, Anne helped us sort a couple pounds of berries to take home so Jim can make homemade cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving. Thank you, Anne! Then we headed to the beach. It was so beautiful, I just stood and breathed everything in.
Jimmy didn't waste any time in starting to hunt for seashells and other finds. I put the kibosh on any crab shells (which stunk up our car for a week after our last ocean trip), but he found some snail shells, hairy cockles, and a very cool volcanic rock with lots of holes in it.
More beach combing.
It was really a perfect day, and I loved being there in that perfect place with Jimmy and Audrey: shreds of blue against the shell-colored clouds with shafts of sun filtering through, all reflected in the mirror of water on sand.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Forty
It's a bit after the fact, but here's a little birthday wrap-up:
My fortieth got off to a rousing start because I had to renew my driver's license, and this is the first time I can remember not lying about my weight on my license. I've always fudged the truth by at least ten pounds, and sometimes even more egregiously. This year I agonized but finally decided it's time to make peace with myself. After all, truth counts most in those little areas where only I would know I was lying. That said, I'm still feeling bitter about having to give up my old license, which had a much better photo than this time around.
Jim and I took the kids to dinner at one of our favorite local places, and it hit me unexpectedly as I was cutting into my big, juicy steak: there was no one I'd rather party with than them. One of my girlfriends asked recently if I was doing something special for my birthday. A year ago, I would have wanted to go out and celebrate this milestone with friends, and maybe have a separate party later with family. Somehow, when I wasn't paying attention, that changed, because now nothing matters more than being with my husband and kids. It's even more enjoyable to watch Jimmy getting a chocolate mustache while slurping down my birthday sundae with gusto than eating it myself.
Don't get me wrong; I loved my kids before and tried to always put them first. But it used to be because I knew that's what a mother is supposed to do and while I wanted to be a good mom, I sometimes resented having to place my children's needs before my own. Now, so much more of my own personal joy comes from seeing their happiness and growth, rather than from my own gratification. Paradoxically, I'm also better able to find the balance in taking care of my own needs so that I have the energy and inner calm to be available and present for them.
And that joyful balance is the best gift. EVER.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Two
I wanted to keep Audrey's birthday party low-key because let's face it, plying a two year-old with all the sugar in cake and ice cream is crazy enough without any additional over-stimulation. At the same time, it was important to me to celebrate how much it means and how grateful we are that she's here, with us, for this birthday. So this morning I helped her put on her favorite dress, then I made sure she had a good nap (even if it meant I had to rock her to sleep in order to seal the deal, which I did), and while she slept I whipped up a yummy lemon cake.Even though she actually turns two tomorrow, we had a small party this evening with just family and a few close friends. My mom and baby sister Meredith drove over from Seattle for dinner and the party, and then Jim's folks and his youngest sister Anna were here, along with her husband her son. My dear friend Gretchen came, too, with her husband and two sweet boys, and snapped the fun shot of me gettin' some sugar from the birthday girl.
Happy birthday, dear Audrey. I'm so blessed to be your mother.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Nana's zucchini relish
One summer when I was a teenager, my Nana (or maybe it was my mom, using Nana's recipe) put up several quarts of zucchini relish. I remember running down to the dark hall shelves in the basement, grabbing a jar, then popping it open to have on burgers, hotdogs, even in tuna salad. Looking back, I'm surprised I liked it as much as I did, as I've never been a big fan of sweet pickles or relishes—but this stuff was delicious.
A few years before she passed away, Jim and I were up visiting Nana at her home on San Juan Island, and I remembered to ask her for the recipe, since I had recently started canning. She rummaged around but couldn't find it. A few months later I got a note in the mail in her typically brief style, which had the recipe attached.
I've never had zucchini plants of my own, but each year when one friend or another offloads some of her bounteous harvest, I dig around for Nana's recipe, with about as much luck as she had trying to find it when I asked. It usually turns up some time in the winter or spring, when canning season is long gone, and I tuck it in a spot I'm sure I will remember for next year.
So this summer, when my friend Gretchen gave me a couple enormous zucchini, I started trying to find the recipe again. It took me a few days, but I finally found it. (And yes, I've already forgotten where I had it stashed.) Here it is, transcribed for clarification, and easy cutting and pasting:
Nana's Zucchini Relish
7-8 medium zucchini (washed)
4 large onions
3 large stalks celery
1/2 cup pickling salt
3 cups sugar
3 cups cider vinegar
2-1/2 teaspoons celery seed
2-1/2 teaspoons mustard seed
2-1/2 teaspoons turmeric
1) Cut vegetables into 1/4 inch cubes. Add pickling salt, cover and let stand in refrigerator overnight. Drain in colander. Rinse under cold running water to remove salt.
2) In large kettle, combine sugar, vinegar and spices. Bring to a boil and simmer for two minutes. Add vegetables. Remove kettle from heat, let stand for 2 hours (I actually cooked the mixture for 20 minutes and skipped letting it stand, which seemed to work just as well and saved some time.) Return liquid to boil and simmer 5 minutes.
3) Spoon relish into clean jars and seal with lids in a water bath. Process for 10 minutes. Makes about 4 pints.
The plan was for me and Gretchen to get together and make relish at her place, but we didn't manage to connect, and I went ahead and made the relish tonight so I could use those gargantuan zucchinis before they went south. Gretchen, if you're reading this, now that I've test-driven the recipe, we should definitely get together and make some more.
I used my nana's recipe as the basis, with a few alterations. Her recipe called for 7-8 medium zucchini, but since I had two very large zucchini, I approximated by using 10 cups of ground zucchini and 2 cups ground yellow summer squash. I used the grinder attachment for my KitchenAid stand mixer, which worked fine on the zucchini and squash, and saved me some prep time. For some extra color, I added red and green bell peppers (one of each). I had mediocre results using the grinder on the peppers, and it didn't work well at all for the onions or celery so I chopped them by hand. I also added two tablespoons of cornstarch to help the relish set up.
I found the recipe with these modifications actually made about 9 pints. GOOD.
Ah, Nana, I miss you.
A few years before she passed away, Jim and I were up visiting Nana at her home on San Juan Island, and I remembered to ask her for the recipe, since I had recently started canning. She rummaged around but couldn't find it. A few months later I got a note in the mail in her typically brief style, which had the recipe attached.
I've never had zucchini plants of my own, but each year when one friend or another offloads some of her bounteous harvest, I dig around for Nana's recipe, with about as much luck as she had trying to find it when I asked. It usually turns up some time in the winter or spring, when canning season is long gone, and I tuck it in a spot I'm sure I will remember for next year.
So this summer, when my friend Gretchen gave me a couple enormous zucchini, I started trying to find the recipe again. It took me a few days, but I finally found it. (And yes, I've already forgotten where I had it stashed.) Here it is, transcribed for clarification, and easy cutting and pasting:
Nana's Zucchini Relish
7-8 medium zucchini (washed)
4 large onions
3 large stalks celery
1/2 cup pickling salt
3 cups sugar
3 cups cider vinegar
2-1/2 teaspoons celery seed
2-1/2 teaspoons mustard seed
2-1/2 teaspoons turmeric
1) Cut vegetables into 1/4 inch cubes. Add pickling salt, cover and let stand in refrigerator overnight. Drain in colander. Rinse under cold running water to remove salt.
2) In large kettle, combine sugar, vinegar and spices. Bring to a boil and simmer for two minutes. Add vegetables. Remove kettle from heat, let stand for 2 hours (I actually cooked the mixture for 20 minutes and skipped letting it stand, which seemed to work just as well and saved some time.) Return liquid to boil and simmer 5 minutes.
3) Spoon relish into clean jars and seal with lids in a water bath. Process for 10 minutes. Makes about 4 pints.
The plan was for me and Gretchen to get together and make relish at her place, but we didn't manage to connect, and I went ahead and made the relish tonight so I could use those gargantuan zucchinis before they went south. Gretchen, if you're reading this, now that I've test-driven the recipe, we should definitely get together and make some more.
I used my nana's recipe as the basis, with a few alterations. Her recipe called for 7-8 medium zucchini, but since I had two very large zucchini, I approximated by using 10 cups of ground zucchini and 2 cups ground yellow summer squash. I used the grinder attachment for my KitchenAid stand mixer, which worked fine on the zucchini and squash, and saved me some prep time. For some extra color, I added red and green bell peppers (one of each). I had mediocre results using the grinder on the peppers, and it didn't work well at all for the onions or celery so I chopped them by hand. I also added two tablespoons of cornstarch to help the relish set up.
I found the recipe with these modifications actually made about 9 pints. GOOD.
Ah, Nana, I miss you.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
NaPoWriMo #27: grayland
I've been out of town since Sunday night (more on that in some future post), and during the first few days of the trip I was down in Grayland, one of my favorite places ever. I thought about writing while I was there, but I was enjoying myself and relaxing and wrangling kids at the beach too much to make time for writing poetry. And I had no internet access, so there was really no pressure to write something I could post. Which is just what I needed, because then I could let the creative juices percolate for a few days.
Going to Grayland
I’ve got two little ones
strapped in the back seat
and it’s me alone up front
a day trip to my roots
with an option to stay awhile
towns like bright beads
on a gray silk string
Ellensburg on one end
Seattle somewhere in the middle
Tukwila, Tacoma, Dupont
(my original hometown
according to my birth certificate)
Olympia, Tumwater, Elma
Satsop, Aberdeen, Westport,
Grayland tying off the strand
my hands relax on the wheel
my eye catches the glitter of sun
playing off two diamonds on my left hand
two wedding rings nestle
next to each other on my ring finger
two Christmases ago my mother
gave me nana’s ring, said
keep it three years then pass it on
to one of your sisters
you choose which one
it was on purpose I brought it with me
on this trip to the home
where my nana came as a new bride
she was a Boston girl
a lady
with wit, sense and style
a trim Navy nurse with soft brown curls
blue eyes that laughed, cried
and smiled all at the same time
she told stories about the war
all the nurses living in Quonset huts
near the base hospital on Oahu
and lowering her voice
as if someone might overhear about
other nurses getting discharged
for fraternizing with married officers
which is why when a young officer
asked her to dinner
she looked up his next of kin first
then graciously accepted
the invitation of the son
of the Reverend Clark Cottrell
of Grayland, Washington
could she have known then
what it would mean
that he would bring her home
down miles of narrow roads winding
through interminable green and gray
moss-grown spruce and fir and pine
across one-lane bridges
that arched over tidal flats
then down Highway 105
through the shorter coastal forest
dotted on each side with small, scattered houses
turning onto the final stretch of Gould Road
that he would bring her home
to Reverend and Mrs. Cottrell
to cranberry bogs, skunk cabbage, windswept dunes
to no running water and
all her favorite shoes spoiled with mold?
I looked at her ring
then looked at mine
thinking of my husband
bringing me home to his parents
to a windswept valley
fertile but still browner and drier
than the lush green of my childhood home
bringing me to live
in a single-wide trailer
with running water and a toilet
but no shower
and now driving through the familiar green
that became her home
and once was mine I realize
we don’t choose the landscapes of our love
but only who takes us there.
Going to Grayland
I’ve got two little ones
strapped in the back seat
and it’s me alone up front
a day trip to my roots
with an option to stay awhile
towns like bright beads
on a gray silk string
Ellensburg on one end
Seattle somewhere in the middle
Tukwila, Tacoma, Dupont
(my original hometown
according to my birth certificate)
Olympia, Tumwater, Elma
Satsop, Aberdeen, Westport,
Grayland tying off the strand
my hands relax on the wheel
my eye catches the glitter of sun
playing off two diamonds on my left hand
two wedding rings nestle
next to each other on my ring finger
two Christmases ago my mother
gave me nana’s ring, said
keep it three years then pass it on
to one of your sisters
you choose which one
it was on purpose I brought it with me
on this trip to the home
where my nana came as a new bride
she was a Boston girl
a lady
with wit, sense and style
a trim Navy nurse with soft brown curls
blue eyes that laughed, cried
and smiled all at the same time
she told stories about the war
all the nurses living in Quonset huts
near the base hospital on Oahu
and lowering her voice
as if someone might overhear about
other nurses getting discharged
for fraternizing with married officers
which is why when a young officer
asked her to dinner
she looked up his next of kin first
then graciously accepted
the invitation of the son
of the Reverend Clark Cottrell
of Grayland, Washington
could she have known then
what it would mean
that he would bring her home
down miles of narrow roads winding
through interminable green and gray
moss-grown spruce and fir and pine
across one-lane bridges
that arched over tidal flats
then down Highway 105
through the shorter coastal forest
dotted on each side with small, scattered houses
turning onto the final stretch of Gould Road
that he would bring her home
to Reverend and Mrs. Cottrell
to cranberry bogs, skunk cabbage, windswept dunes
to no running water and
all her favorite shoes spoiled with mold?
I looked at her ring
then looked at mine
thinking of my husband
bringing me home to his parents
to a windswept valley
fertile but still browner and drier
than the lush green of my childhood home
bringing me to live
in a single-wide trailer
with running water and a toilet
but no shower
and now driving through the familiar green
that became her home
and once was mine I realize
we don’t choose the landscapes of our love
but only who takes us there.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
NaPoWriMo #14: cars
I almost didn't know where to begin with the "road trip" prompt at Read Write Poem, since the subject of cars is highly evocative for me.My parents were in the middle of their divorce the summer I took driver's ed, so taking me out to practice driving wasn't high on their list of priorities. Frankly, nerves were so raw (on all sides) when I did practice, it was a blessed relief to get a D and opt out by sheer failure.
I didn't get my driver's license until I was 21 and moved to California to be a missionary. Learning to drive in the Bay Area permanently stunted my driving style and it has taken years for me to unlearn my aggressive tendencies. The lead foot I will never unlearn—it's genetic—but parenthood has tamed (lamed?) it, and I usually drive right at the limit when my kids are in the car.
My first car, which I bought in 1993, was a burgundy 1989 Toyota Corolla, just like the mission cars I had driven in California. I paid for it myself, but was so broke after the down payment I had to borrow from my folks to pay for insurance. I've posted before about my tradition of naming vehicles, and Rosie Rolla was my first. I drove it for the next nine years, until Jim and I traded it in on a brand new gunmetal gray Camry (named Felix) as a graduation present to ourselves. I think the salesman saw us coming; the first feature he pointed out was the three child seat anchors in the back seat.
We're a Toyota family, between Rosie, Felix and the Batmobile (Jim's black 1992 Toyota pickup), but if I were ever to own the car of my dreams, it would be a 1969 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia convertible. Red, of course. Maybe someday.
I think the VW love goes back to our first family car I remember from when I was a kid, a blue VW squareback. I vaguely recall an old white Ford we may have had before the squareback, as well as a succession of cars after, but the squareback is the one I remember fondly, being buckled in the back seat and sometimes up front if it was just me and Dad, in the days before child car seats.
Are We There Yet?
You and mom up front
me and Lee in back
too little then to know
let alone remember now
why we were on the way to California
all I remember is a blur
riding the Nut Tree Railroad
straight streets lined with palm trees
driving through a wildlife preserve
and how even rolled up windows
failed to muffle the profanity
coming from under our dark blue hood
four of us packed in a squareback
white vinyl sticking to our backs and legs
leaving its impression of raised dots
marching across our clammy skin
windows rolled down
still failed to cool tempers
only made our hair stringy
plastered it across sweaty foreheads
blew it into our mouths
while we yelled at each other
you had pinned a yellow button
with a smiling face
to the back of your visor
for so much of that trip
it was the only face to smile
I coveted it from the back seat and
you promised me I could have it
if I would be a good girl
if I would just stop asking.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
NaPoWriMo #12: home
I'm still playing catch-up. When I read the prompt at Read Write Poem to write about where I came from, I decided to re-work a poem I wrote last year.
Goodbye 3517
I remember summer afternoons
picking sweet peas and blackberries
from the wild tangle of our alley
their pink and purple juices
running through my bones
walking blocks and blocks
to get to a saltwater swimming pool
and rocky kelp strewn beaches
and after dark stealthily climbing
a cherry tree reaching skinny legs
to span across to the top of our gazebo
soles of bare feet back arms legs
rubbed against rough shingled roof
as I stared up at moon and stars
to see what they held for me
I remember winter nights
when rain seeped into my bones
creeping from my room
back when it was still downstairs
still hung with home sewn
white curtains trimmed with eyelet
still wallpapered with orderly rows
of tiny orange flowers
the worn carpet and linoleum
reassuring my bare feet as I crept
to huddle over a kitchen vent
with warmth blowing up
inside my thin nightgown
I remember
summer spring winter and fall
being happiest alone
curled up with a book and my thoughts
in some solitary spot
five families have called
this house home
even when they didn’t want to
one: before dad left
two: after
three: us
four: them
five: uneasy union of us all
here it is: my last visit
the home I remember is long gone
and I am a stranger
in a house full of ghosts
new rugs and slick floors
piled high with so much sentimental debris
now waiting to be sorted, boxed
discarded, mourned
soon it will all be gone
someone else’s new home
covering a grave
(here lies my tender youth)
and those bones will rest at last.
Goodbye 3517
I remember summer afternoons
picking sweet peas and blackberries
from the wild tangle of our alley
their pink and purple juices
running through my bones
walking blocks and blocks
to get to a saltwater swimming pool
and rocky kelp strewn beaches
and after dark stealthily climbing
a cherry tree reaching skinny legs
to span across to the top of our gazebo
soles of bare feet back arms legs
rubbed against rough shingled roof
as I stared up at moon and stars
to see what they held for me
I remember winter nights
when rain seeped into my bones
creeping from my room
back when it was still downstairs
still hung with home sewn
white curtains trimmed with eyelet
still wallpapered with orderly rows
of tiny orange flowers
the worn carpet and linoleum
reassuring my bare feet as I crept
to huddle over a kitchen vent
with warmth blowing up
inside my thin nightgown
I remember
summer spring winter and fall
being happiest alone
curled up with a book and my thoughts
in some solitary spot
five families have called
this house home
even when they didn’t want to
one: before dad left
two: after
three: us
four: them
five: uneasy union of us all
here it is: my last visit
the home I remember is long gone
and I am a stranger
in a house full of ghosts
new rugs and slick floors
piled high with so much sentimental debris
now waiting to be sorted, boxed
discarded, mourned
soon it will all be gone
someone else’s new home
covering a grave
(here lies my tender youth)
and those bones will rest at last.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
NaPoWriMo #7: nicknames
Read Write Poem's prompt for yesterday, "nicknames", caught me off-guard because one of the first things I thought of was a childhood nickname given to me by my uncle. That in turn opened a floodgate of memories about him and how our relationship has changed over the years. I actually wrote the first half of the poem yesterday, but then I had to sleep on it and come back to it today when I had time to really give what I needed to this poem, to dig deep and write.
Gypsy
When I was four five six seven eight
he twirled me till my full skirts belled out
lifted and carried me on his shoulders
called me Gypsy
gave me a ride home from first grade
on the back of his motorcycle
made me wear his scuffed white helmet
while his bare long hair streamed behind
fed me chocolate chips while watching
Saturday morning cartoons at his house.
It was only later I remember
overhearing my mom and aunt
talking about his marriage failing
because of pot coke drinking
beginning to understand words like
codependent and addiction
because they weren’t whispering
or keeping the doors closed anymore
and after I remembered for myself
finding magazines under his coffee table
decks of cards with naked ladies
feeling sick when I looked at them
dirty when I thought of why my heart raced
tasting vomit back in my throat
when I recognized his smell
was the smell of beer.
He took me fishing once when I was a teenager
his small white motorboat breaking over
whitecaps in the Strait of Juan de Fuca
but I didn’t know what to say to him
even when we hooked a cod
gray scaly longer than my arm
flopping dull against fiberglass hull
just listened to him telling me
stories and names of silver inlets
wrapped around emerald headlands
on the way home and all the while
holding back vomit when
I caught his beer-smell on the breeze.
The years since have wasted him and me:
wasted time wasted love wasted life
only recently I’ve resigned my need to deny
that I am more like him than I knew
for we both brawl with our own demons
acquainted with pain, I feel his when I see him
brown bag in hand at a reunion
or when I catch his breath as we hug
I wonder now what beer was the balm for
what first wounded his wild gypsy soul
when he was half the age I am now.
I don’t know how this story ends
only that I’m not Gypsy anymore and
he’s not the same man who named me.
Gypsy
When I was four five six seven eight
he twirled me till my full skirts belled out
lifted and carried me on his shoulders
called me Gypsy
gave me a ride home from first grade
on the back of his motorcycle
made me wear his scuffed white helmet
while his bare long hair streamed behind
fed me chocolate chips while watching
Saturday morning cartoons at his house.
It was only later I remember
overhearing my mom and aunt
talking about his marriage failing
because of pot coke drinking
beginning to understand words like
codependent and addiction
because they weren’t whispering
or keeping the doors closed anymore
and after I remembered for myself
finding magazines under his coffee table
decks of cards with naked ladies
feeling sick when I looked at them
dirty when I thought of why my heart raced
tasting vomit back in my throat
when I recognized his smell
was the smell of beer.
He took me fishing once when I was a teenager
his small white motorboat breaking over
whitecaps in the Strait of Juan de Fuca
but I didn’t know what to say to him
even when we hooked a cod
gray scaly longer than my arm
flopping dull against fiberglass hull
just listened to him telling me
stories and names of silver inlets
wrapped around emerald headlands
on the way home and all the while
holding back vomit when
I caught his beer-smell on the breeze.
The years since have wasted him and me:
wasted time wasted love wasted life
only recently I’ve resigned my need to deny
that I am more like him than I knew
for we both brawl with our own demons
acquainted with pain, I feel his when I see him
brown bag in hand at a reunion
or when I catch his breath as we hug
I wonder now what beer was the balm for
what first wounded his wild gypsy soul
when he was half the age I am now.
I don’t know how this story ends
only that I’m not Gypsy anymore and
he’s not the same man who named me.
Monday, October 27, 2008
If you think...
...I've been ignoring my blog and my Facebook page, you're absolutely right. Real life has taken over the front seat and blogging has been kicked to the curb. For now.
Just to reward your patience, here are some snapshots from our yearly outing to the Roslyn harvest festival. You can check out the snaps from last year's festival if you want to see how much Jimmy and Audrey have changed this year.
Just to reward your patience, here are some snapshots from our yearly outing to the Roslyn harvest festival. You can check out the snaps from last year's festival if you want to see how much Jimmy and Audrey have changed this year.
Here's a little recap of what's new with us in October:
Audrey: walking is now her preferred method of transit. She talks constantly—still mostly jabbering, but with a few words like "banana", "kitty", "Mommy", and "Daddy" mixed in. Oh, and she just gave up her morning nap this week, so we're figuring out how to readjust our schedule accordingly.
Jimmy: after taking Columbia Virtual Academy's placement testing, we determined he's between first and second grade in both reading and math, but technically he's enrolled in kindergarten so we don't have to log twenty hours of teaching per week (the state requirement is 10 hours of instruction per week for kindergarten, and at first grade it bumps up to twenty). Homeschool is more work and more fun than both Jimmy and I expected; right now we're studying vocabulary for colors in Spanish, animals in science, vowels and consonants, and writing numbers from 100 to 200.
Jim: got a new job. We're ecstatic because he will soon have a four-block, five-minute walking commute (instead of driving forty-five minutes each way on roads that are very icy in the winter), better benefits, and a higher salary (not to mention what we'll be saving on gasoline!)
Me: got a new haircut and started going to Overeaters Anonymous. I've always had a rather skeptical-bordering-on-derisive view of twelve-step programs, but I'm over that. After just one month, it's already been life-changing. And yes, it is partially to blame for my scaled-back blogging, but I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing.
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