Art

"I felt ...[a] sense of irrationality in the world around me...Whenever this occurs I turn to the piano, to my typewriter, to a book. We turn to stories and pictures and music because they show us who and what and why we are, and what our relationship is to life and death, what is essential, and what, despite the arbitrariness of falling beams, will not burn. Paul Klee said, 'Art does not reproduce the visible. Rather, it makes visible.' It is not then, at its best, a mirror but an icon. It takes the chaos in which we live and shows us structure and pattern, not the structure of conformity which imprisons but the structure which liberates, sets us free to become growing, mature human beings. We are a generation which is crying loudly to tear down all structure in order to find freedom, and discovering, when order is demolished, that instead of freedom we have death."

--Madeleine L'Engle, A Circle of Quiet, p. 120-121

{painting by Kershisnik}

the pie toll

Breakfast at OTC this morning with an old friend. So fun to look across the table at someone who is so dear and laugh and joke and know that all is right in the world. Next up, lunch at Thanksgiving Point and a stroll around the gardens which, SG and I decided are just as charming in November as they are in the Spring/Summer months. We wandered around arbors, sat under pergolas, and found the path across all the bridges in sight. The sunset was breathtaking over the Ocres as snow began to fall on the mountains to the east. On our way out, we caught a movie and topped the night off with Toll House pie at the Dodo. We spoke of ambitions, passions, favorite things: colors, places, baseball, and music. When all is said and done, when all favorite things are tallied, Toll House Pie = The Key to my Heart. It's as simple as that. All-in-all, another great November Day to add to the books. The night continued on an upswing as I walked in the door to find my YBH girls in the basement with Notting Hill on repeat on Channel 54. What more could three girls want. They're on round two as I'm about to hit the hay. Can't wait for Spiritual Enlightenment tomorrow and time with the fam.

The Correspondence Principle

It's late. I'm tired, but it's been a good day. Roomie Time and time in my room. Cleaning. Contemplating. Reading old journal entries (highly entertaining) and catching up on emails. Listening to these new EP tracks. (Amazing. Love those Brit Boys!) Still on a concert high. Tomorrow brings a fun afternoon outing. Only two more days of NaBloPoMo (Hip! Hip!) AND...only six more days until an OME reunion! I'm literally counting the hours!

Prayer of Thanksgiving

"Lord, behold our family here assembled. We thank Thee for this place in which we dwell; for the love that unites us; for the peace accorded us this day; for the hope with which we expect the morrow; for the health, the work, the food, and the bright skies, that make our lives delightful; for our friends in all parts of the earth, and our friendly helpers in this foreign isle. Let peace abound in our small company. Purge out of every heart the lurking grudge. Give us grace and strength to forbear and to persevere. Offenders, give us the grace to accept and to forgive offenders. Forgetful ourselves, help us to bear cheerfully the forgetfulness of others. Give us courage and gaiety and the quiet mind. Spare to us our friends, soften to us our enemies. Bless us, if it may be, in all our innocent endeavours. If it may not, give us the strength to encounter that which is to come, that we be brave in peril, constant in tribulation, temperate in wrath, and in all changes of fortune, and, down to the gates of death, loyal and loving one to another."

{Robert Louis Stevenson}

I'm grateful for family. For a street lined with familiar cars, a table full of food, and the grand caravan to Alpine. I'm grateful for blackout BINGO, chocolate mousse pie, and Uncle R's strumming and singing on the guitar. I'm grateful for Suzuki duets in the dining room, post-dinner story telling, and Grandma's laugh. I'm grateful for a cozy house with cousins abounding. I'm grateful for family that spots the globe and the ties that bind us, no matter the distance. I'm grateful for health and heritage and a day to give thanks for scores of blessings granted by the Father of us all.

twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine

On October the twenty-ninth, twenty-eight days ago today, K and A and I sat in a corner booth.* We dipped bread and ate cheese and talked of the future -- A's future, if you want particulars. Tonight, in a booth across town, it was my turn to toast to the year that is Twenty-seven. What I'll work towards. How I plan to get there and what I'll do once I arrive. Thanks to K and A for the company, the "hear! hear's!" and the three cheers. Until July, K Dear. Then it's your turn!

On another note: baked pies today with Mom, Bibbers and The Chard. Sang Patty Griffin all afternoon. Bought prizes for tomorrow and am now tucked in for a slumber party. Can't wait for the crowd, Grandma's rolls and mashed potatoes, commentary from The Brothers N and after-Turkey BINGO in Alpine, among all other Things Thanksgiving!

*We miss our Meka Mouse. Must remedy that. Quick!

leaves

Tonight, I raked in the lamplight. Memories came floating in like leaves on a blustery day deep in The Hundred Acre Wood. I tried to remember everything Dad taught me: how to hoist myself up and into the orange-lined garbage can to stomp stomp stomp, leaves crunching with every step; to comb the grass in big full swoops; and to use the rake to aide in transporting golden yellow leaves into their hibernation hut, deep within the orange bags the City left on our doorstep.
I wore my Boden barrett, old soccer socks and black gloves to stay toasty and cooked corn chowder on the stove to warm my insides when I finished. Tomorrow brings a short day of work. Then making pies with Sister and Chardo and prepping the house for all things Turkey Day. And, now that the leaves are raked, I'm hoping for snow.

still life

I rotate the pear one quarter turn to the right, its blushing belly exposed to the pomegranate directly adjacent to it. The blazing fruit of passion sits unabashedly aside its paler, more timid counterpart, turned a quarter counter-clockwise in the tall glass vase atop the table. No one notices, but that quarter turn makes all the difference because now, not only does the pear-yellow harmonize with the red of the pomegranate, but the pear's rosy belly now blurs the fruit's colors together creating a yellow to orange to red gradient; both a study in color and one in line and shape and texture. I take another pear out of the bag and place it in the vase of pomegranates, flush-side up.

grazie

To M & D and Chardo My Lardo
To Roomies, Chris Martin and our Men In Trees
To the R's in Rome and the R's here at home
To N in DTown and gummy strawberries
To Waddy LA, Baby L, and Jenna the Henna
To Kyle Korver
To Bibbs and D
To Xan and his Trio Clan
To both Grandmas
To Katie Babes, Gracie, Moof, and Marian
To Annie in Ann Arbor, Jeff and Baby E
To Em, Greg-O, Miss KR, and L-Diddy
To Ned, Jim and Mr. McPatty D
To K-Lo, Meeks and Anna Banana
To Mr. Party Man, and...
To anyone and everyone (you know who you are) who helped make today (and yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that) so wonderful....THANK YOU!
Here's to Wishes in Sixes, dancing like criz-azy in the ESA, baking pies, and making it count. Here's to twenty-seven. Hip! Hip! Nooray!

chris martin for president

I think I love him a little bit.

excuses, excuses, excuses

Can I blame it on the fact that we waited an hour and a half to be seated last night at Trio? Or the ridiculously good-looking waiter who had all six of us squished and swooning in our corner booth for four? Or this cold that set in full-force yesterday morning? (The doc says I have a spur in my nose. Excuse me, a what?!) Sure, all those are valid excuses in my book as to why I missed a post yesterday. I had full intentions of penning something. My brother showed up to watch a movie and ten minutes in, he tucked me in bed instead. Sniff. Sniff. Must rest up, however. Because tonight, thanks to incredibly wonderful roommates, I'm spending my birthday eve with these British Boys. I'm not letting a silly cold keep me from rocking it out this evening with Coldplay. Viva la Vida!

Mr. Ed's color theory class

Amidst the saw dusty mess of an old wood floor (soon-to-be gorgeous), I tried to describe the stain I wish to be the end result. I fanned out the options and showed the floor-finisher-stainer dude (that's his real title). Truth be told, I wasn't thrilled with any of the choices. "It's between this and this," I said, pointing to two samples. He didn't follow. Picking several others, I said, "Like if you took this, and mixed it with this, you'd get something right about here." A blank stare. Hmm. I was at a loss and he was just plain lost. We dialed N in CA. We went back and forth saying, "It's like this. It's like that. It's like this and that." We were getting nowhere and I had just gotten a sliver from fanning out all the different options. After a brief period of well-now-what's? and why-did-the-airport-steal-my-Leatherman-with-the-tweezers-in-it? moments, N said, "OK, so I'm looking at a horse right now that is just the most perfect color." I wish we could have borrowed him and had the dude/guy take him to the paint store to do a color match. Alas, we're back to combining several different shades to hopefully get something "right about (t)here." I'll be interested to see what he comes up with. If all else fails, we'll buy a trailer and start pony rides in the neighborhood to cover our costs. All in favor say ,"I." Any opposed, say "Neigh."

Van Gogh Clean Your Room

HERE. Consider yourself culturally informed. And entertained. If nothing, you've got a new accent to master. Now go get his book. It's brilliant.

*Watch (at least) until he gets to Pollock. However, the whole thing is most definitely worth it.

Today

I'm taking cues from m.writes. I do so quite often, but mainly in my personal journal. But due to lack of creativity, NaBloPoMo burn-out, and the late hour, this is as good as it going to get.

Today,

November 19, 2008
I love the smell of:
Middle-Eastern cuisine at Mazza
I love the sound of:
Grandma's house shoes as they scuff across the kitchen floor
I love the taste of:
S'mores made in the microwave
I love the sight of:
Paint chips, in the boldest of colors, plucked from their slots and pocketed for a collage day in the near-future
I love the feel of:
Connecting.

ring around the rosie

Got to sidle my way across saw dust today. Played hop-scotch with still-single floorboards, yet to fit snugly together. Took self-guided tour of three Home Depots. Walked the property of a brick house house, round and round, with N on the other line, playing what-if and how-about while the owners were away. Played Goldilocks and was oh so content when I sat in a chair no longer too soft, but just right. I love my job.

give it the old college try

R is in the midst of writing his college entrance essays. Nine years later, I wish I could give him sound advice; tell him to get his application in early. To call the department in which he has particular interest and introduce himself to the department chairs. It's never too early.

I remember I wrote my essay about Suzan, my AP English teacher. And friend. The woman who taught me to love words - to love reading them and writing them. I wrote about the two-toned brown VW bus with no seat belts and coasting down 800 South. I wrote about her sandals from Mexico, worn year-round. Her egg and tomato sandwiches. The time she wrote "definitely" in red pen around the entire border of one of my papers. (I never spelled it wrong after that.) I wrote about Stuey and Stauzee and the Le Chien Lunatic sign on her front door. About McDonald's at Laird Park and how she taught me to always show, never tell. Any one of her hundreds of students know exactly what I mean when I write that, red pen memories popping into periphery.

Tonight I wished I could give R the words. I wished I could have written his essay for him. I wish I could explain to him that sure, he's had it good growing up. His friends are great. The things he's gleaned in his almost 18-years of life will play a role in who he will become over the next six or so years of college life (mission included). He will have his own Peggy Honeys and David Taylors. Those who will take the world he knows now, his world of Yale Avenue Sundays, Thursday nights in the basement, and summers at the cabin and turn it completely upside-down. Shaking it like a kaleidoscope. Creating new shapes and variations. He'll discover parts of himself he never knew existed, patterns he'll ooh and aww at. He'll have nights he can't sleep because he's so sleep deprived his body has forgotten how to shut down. And, he'll have classes he'll struggle not to sleep through. He'll meet the most interesting people and some not so interesting ones. He'll long for home. He'll rejoice in the freedom of no curfew and his own space in which to do whatever he wishes.

One thing I know for sure: while those years were some of the best years of my life, it's the people at home I care the most about; those who I hold most dear to my heart. They continue to shape who I am. Parents who impress me on an everyday basis as they continue to guide me in life. A grandmother who, 11 children and 45 grand-children later, still forges on in faith and good works, as the head of the family. A best friend who calms her two year-old while on a walk that ends up being a bit longer than we planned, while her newborn sweetly slumbers in the stroller spot adjacent to big sister. These are the lessons not taught in any lecture hall. The things long-remembered after entrance essays are submitted. The answers to life's tough questions not on any final exam.

I will never forget Peggy Honey, David Taylor or Camille Fronk. They have shaped me in so many ways. I owe my love and understanding of color to Peggy; my fondness of federal architecture to Professor Taylor; my simple understanding of the New Testament (I've got a long way to go!) to Sister Fronk. They became a part of me during those formative years where I was searching for myself when I already knew who I was. But, those here at home continue to become apart of me as the thread of our memories continue. The essay grows ever-longer, as does my gratitude list for all I have learned walking in their footsteps.

Good luck, R. I'm excited for what awaits you!

Confession

...I have a weakness for guys with cuff links.

Sunday Shakeup

Tonight, we had the place to ourselves. We shaked our own shakes, (K's recipe proved to be the biggest hit: chocolate, peanut butter, marshmallow, banana) mixed our own limeades, and took lots of pictures. We moon walked on the kitchen floor, helped ourselves to free refills and pulled the tables together. BH gave advice on Life and Love and Lessons to be learned, now and in the future, whenever that may be. We laughed about quirks and red crayola crayons. E raised a glass and toasted to togetherness. Tonight, over Big H's and fries a la the B, we all shouted, "Hear! Hear!" Here's to more nights out, more nights in, more of the same...more good things on the horizon. I feel lucky to get to hang out with such an outstanding crowd of women. Hats off and three cheers to the H Family for the best "home cooked" Sunday dinner in a long time.

you'd eat pie, too if it happend to you

Hung twinkle lights in windows.
Trimmed trees and decked halls at the store.
Ate pizza with fresh tomatoes in good company.
Looked at some spiffy-looking ties.
Saw movie.
Came home.
Spilled the beans.
Met K.
Went to party and ate pie in good company.
Talked.
Laughed.
Cleaned up at M&D's with K.
Home again.
Laughed some more.
Am sleepy.

*Mare, turns out, I fixed it. So there!

In a Jiffy

My ninety eight year-old grandmother is the dearest most darling thing. I wish everyone could be lucky enough to meet her. She is truly a Legend; a Legacy. The epitome of living life to its capacity; the glass always more than half-full. Her glass is brimming, no, overflowing with blessings, or so she'd tell you in her soft, sweet voice. She'd clasp her hands and say, "Isn't it thrilling?" Then she'd offer you some apricot nectar or some pear juice and her award-winning ginger cremes.

My cousin, Rebecca, who I wish to be like in every way, once gave a lesson in church about happiness. She described our grandmother as having a "happy heart." Those are the perfect words to describe Grandma. Her heart is happy. It's brightness is evident from the moment you greet her. It warms you from the inside out. Her expressions of love are far-reaching.

I love going downstairs to the fruit room with grandma. There are all sorts of treasures there. Dried pears and apples. Canned peaches. And lots of boxes of Jiffy mix. Cornbread, blueberry, cranberry. I was shopping the other day and saw those bright blue vintage-looking boxes tucked back on the bottom shelf. I bent down and grabbed five, just because. I thought of Grandma and knew the smell of those muffins, or even the sight of the boxes on my shelf would bring her happy heart into my house. It worked.

The other night Maren and I decided to make some Jiffy muffins. We looked at the clock, which blinked 11 p.m. back at us. Perfect muffin time, right? We got to work. An egg and milk. Jiffy stands by it's product: in a "Jiffy." I opened the fridge. No milk. Water, perhaps? We added two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. It yielded muffin soup. Flour! We thought. So, flour it was. Suddenly I had the sense these weren't going to taste like Grandma's muffins.

Thirty minutes later, we had our muffins. Not as quickly as we thought, nor as tasty, but they did the job. Next time we'll know. We'll prepare better. That's how life is; learn as you go, acquiring the necessary ingredients: experience, faith, friendship, and kindred spirits, up for anything, along the way.

a wee bit foggy

Today's just another one to add to the books: The Adventures of K and M. There's no one I'd rather...
- End up in Queens with.
- Crash a golf cart with.
- Get stuck in a true Chicago blizzard (sans coats) with.
- Eat an entire box of Frangos with.
- Spend my last pennies on gumballs with.
- Fetch firewood in the middle of the night with. Say cheese!
- Look for Pattie's Pizzeria with.
- Be stranded in the parking lot of Hires with.
- Scream in the back of an airplane with.
- "Break" into the Delta parking lot with.

Until tomorrow, my dear...Don't forget the baking soda and a toothbrush. Wha?!
"Take me to the fog! Don't you love it?!"

Confession

...I was wrong. Mern isn't crazy after all. There really was an alarm in the basement all along! Thanks to Steph for helping us get to the bottom of it.

Confession

...we drove right past a man with an almost-flat tire today and didn't tell him.

been there. done that.

I've long been fascinated by the idea that you can be homesick for a place you've never been. A city, a countryside, a dot on a map. On library days, when most girls headed to the section containing the latest series of "Baby-sitter's Club," I'd go to the travel section and browse books on big cities and fabled European countries like Germany and France. In my head I'd rack up Frequent Flier Miles, planning trips to various places, hitting all the historic landmarks, sitting in on concerts in old buildings, and dining at the best restaurants.

My parents and grandparents facilitated such flights of the mind with tales from their own travels and time lines, Dad spending some of his youth in Berlin; Grandpa growing up in New York; both Grandmas toting tots in planes, trains, and automobiles and doing some traveling of their own. Dad kept a box full of maps gathered from National Geographic magazine, AAA and the like, and many Sundays weren't complete without the Rand McNally spread wide across the dining room table. (They often still aren't).

I believe I've referenced it before, but I've picked it up Alain de Botton's "The Art of Travel" to read in tandem with Gopnik's "Paris to the Moon," the past few nights. Gopnik validates the sense of self I felt I found along the streets of Paris although I'd never before been. He writes that the physical Paris looked exactly like the pictures of the place in his childhood head; the Paris he'd created by piecing together old black and white movies with scenes from "The Red Balloon." Marrying this thought with one of de Botton's, that "It is not necessarily at home that we best encounter ourselves," brings the notion that our feet can find the familiar between the cobblestones of the Ile de la Cite just as well as they can find the familiar between lines on the sidewalk skipping home from school.

Confession...

Today was the kind of day when I wish that N was in town. She and I would sit cozily inside in the basement with the fireplace roaring and watch The Rescuers or 101 Dalmations. We'd let Lauren play on the floor and the two of us would take turns quoting every other line.

Today, the lyrics of a John Lennon song matched the weather and my mood: "In the middle of a cloud, in the middle of a cloud I call your name!" Today, I missed him. Out loud.

In Memorium

With the speed of the car, the French countryside blurred into red and green. It was as if Monet himself had poked a paintbrush through the clouds to touch up the poppies in the fields just for us; for me. Because he knew I was coming. Because he knows I love red. His red.

After a week in the hustle and bustle of Paris, amid budding trees and spring bulbs, we were headed north. Towards wide open space and green fields full of poppies and yellow wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breezes of the Spring air. We spent a semi-rowdy morning running along the cobblestones and ducking down narrow alleyways at Mont Saint-Michel. All of us piled in two cars and caravanned to the Landing Beaches of Normandy. Fearing the children would be restless, the grown-ups cautioned and quieted. Once we arrived, no reminders were necessary. Even the little ones of our bunch became reverent as we walked through the rose gardens towards the cemetery and The Memorial from the Gardens of the Missing.

There, on a plot of American soil graciously granted to us by France, on a large field of green are over 9,000 gravestones, standing still no matter the breeze or the season. Marking the lives of U.S. Servicemen and women who lost their lives during WWII, row after row after row they poke up from the ground like flowers, stretching up towards the sun. We walked the lawn overlooking the English Channel and marveled at how, from any angle, all the headstones lined up: a symbol of order to the chaos that was.

I suppose from time to time those that lost their lives reach their finger through the clouds to trace along the narratives on the wall of the colonnade, words of encouragement, words of tribute. Those who were never identified nor found, but whose names are chiseled into the stone, walk the rose gardens (perhaps bringing a paintbrush) to prove that they were. That they are. That they always will be. They do not sleep, but there they lie, to etch in our memory the importance of liberty and life, so we won't forget. So we will pause in reverence and run our fingers along the narratives in the colonnades of history, tracing the names of those who gave their lives in pursuit of our happiness; our future; our freedom.

Today, we remember. We pay tribute. We give thanks to those no longer with us, those who have fought and those who continue to fight, never sleeping though poppies grow. We shall hold the torch high. We shall not break faith. We shall always remember.


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Searching

Tonight L and I joined the rest of the 33rd crowd to do some indexing at the stake center. The two of us pulled up a batch of names from a California census; names from Italy. Switzerland. Portugal. We filled in father, mother, daughter, son, widow, widower. Birth and immigration dates. We deciphered "D's." Freed tangled "T's." Unraveled "R's." Dotted neglected "I's" and rounded out the empty "O's," all in attempt to decode names of people and places. How removed I felt looking at such old documents with actual handwriting scrawled across one line to the next. Yet, I felt such a kinship with those strangers; those I won't have the opportunity to greet until I've passed on. But I believe they will be waiting with open arms. Makes heaven seem all the more heavenly. In the meantime, there is so much work to be done!

cha cha cha

Leaves crunching underfoot and chilly fall air all about us, last night we took a post-dinner stroll. Picking the streets we strolled along, he pointed out favorite houses and aspects of them each. I wasn't shy - I chimed in with any and all critical or complimentary commentary. We ended up in uncharted country, a street I'd passed but never explored. I'm no conquistador, nor was this New World anything worthy of a conquest, but we did find the World's Shortest Fence, standing a mere 12" above the ground. Territory, is territory, I suppose. All in all, the night was victorious if you ask me. And I've got some sweet tastin' fresh basil noodles left-over to prove it. Planting a proverbial flag in that pasta, I'm staking my claim on what's left. It's mine, all mine.

just you and me

I walked into the room and found her in the green chair. Dad was kneeling beside her, holding her hand. The television was tuned to the rebroadcast. I paused for a moment and then walked towards her. Hugging her gently I said, "It's me, Grandma. Martha." As her blue eyes gazed up at me she said, "Oh, hello dear. Let's go into the other room. Just you and me." I helped her up, and together we walked. She sat in her chair and I sidled another up beside her. Feeling one wasn't good enough, feeling as if I held them in mine I could keep her with me forever, I reached across and took both of her hands. I squeezed them gently and rested them in her lap. We sat beside the big front window for a long while, the Sunday afternoon sunshine streaming in. We talked about the past and she told me what she hoped for in my future. Not wanting to let go, tears rolled freely out and down both sides of my cheeks. I felt them curl under my chin. "Make this go on forever," I thought.

to sister

Someone has a birthday today.

One of my favorite someones. She is 28! She is smart and kind and generous. She is beautiful (with no make-up! I'm so jealous.) She is courageous. She is brave.
She is patient. She is fun to travel with. (Boston 2005, our own room.) She gives great advice. She informed me about the important contributions of Ivan Peterson. She is fun, creative, and selfless. Kids flock to her. She is a good artist. She is a good writer. She can rap. She can play any musical instrument (Including my violin. Not fair.) She is not afraid to try new things. She is the best baby-sitter EVER and there's a whole neighborhood to back me up on that one. She is good with people: young, old and in between. She once saved me when I was seated by the right filange on the plane. She is an optimist. She is an amazing cellist. We like to go get frozen yogurt together at The Mav and Shop N' Go. We like to run Saturday errands together. She helps everyone feel needed and loved. She serves and doesn't ask for recognition. She beats all the boys at basketball (and football, and swimming, and water polo, and tennis.) She takes good care of her husband. (She should. He's really great.) She makes me laugh. I can tell her anything. She laughs at my dumb jokes. (Turtley Turtle)
She likes to eat at Joe's Bar and Grill 'cause it's her favorite. She leaves five dollar tips for the waiters there. She helps me when I'm stressed out. She is outdoorsy and athletic.
She taught me how to drive a stick shift. She's got mad scrapbooking skills. She lets me come visit whenever I want. She helped me with my flip-turns. She rescues me when I'm in a jamb. We like to have dance parties late at night in the kitchen with Mom. She makes Christmas fun. She calls me just because. She is even-tempered. She is a gifted teacher.
She is a true friend. She is a wonderful daughter. I don't know what I would do without her.
She is my very most favorite sister!

She is my hero.

Love you, Bibbers!

the carpenter

The other day S and I took a slight detour onto West Temple Street. I told her about the green house and the big factory out back. About Germany and kitchen cabinets. About learning to drive in the parking lot. About running my fingers over the wood furniture in the entry and sifting through stacks and stacks of blueprints. About choosing library chairs, picking paint colors and the hope that Grandpa would approve.
* * *
In the Avenues of Salt Lake, under sycamore trees with large round trunks, tucked away betwixt historic dutch colonials with flared eaves and Tudors with authentic-looking daub and wattle, is a square building with square windows and a square door the color of French lavender. The door has a gold handle and a gold kick-plate, tarnished with time and wear. Trimmed hedges that nest side-by-side, slowly grow towards one another, stretching to encircle a small fountain in the courtyard.

Inside the door is a large room with square walls full of beautiful artwork in frames of gold. Pottery turned on a round wheel is a top a square glass table. The light bends and bounces off the glaze and onto the glass. Sculpture, in all shapes, sizes, lines and contours create contrast against the squareness of the structure as a whole.

In the back of the square building, in a right-angled room, sits a German man who speaks in soft tones, a master at his trade. He spends his days with wood between his hands and sawdust at his feet as he sands and sculpts. Running his fingers along the grain, he fits dovetails, the corners interlocking into each other as if the pieces were never separated. No two pieces are alike. When he is finished, he takes a Polaroid picture and places the square photograph in a square pouch inside a square binder and begins anew.

Today I parked my car alongside the curb underneath the sycamores. I walked along the path and in through the courtyard. I pulled on the gold handle, the tips of my toe touching the kick-plate as I pushed the door open. I paused in the entry to notice a new piece; to run my fingers along the grain of the wood and to notice what was framed in gold above it. I walked through the big square room to the room in the back. It smelled of varnish and veneers. Suddenly, I was in another woodworker's shop, run by another man who hails from the same country. A man who spoke in soft tones and spent his days sketching and sanding and splitting veneers, creating beautiful works of art in wood, one at a time.

je t'aime

I'm in bed before 11, sipping my first cup of tea of the season, reading about Paris and listening to Charles Trenet. I found the perfect gift for sister today. I cleaned my room. Ate veggies for dinner. Heard from S and got an email from Siena. It snowed the night before last. I finally connected with N this afternoon; we're going with the black and white one. Plans for the weekend are unexpectedly exciting. I'd stay up and write, but reading in bed is all too tempting. La vie. C'est si bon!

Walking a Tight Rope

World Famous Muriel. We made Aunt B read the story over and over again. Muriel was our favorite detective. She saves the day by returning all the stolen paper lanterns just in time for the Queen's birthday party and then gets to walk the tightrope in front of all the party guests. She's wearing her blue hat as she puts one pointy shoe in front of another. She safely makes it to the other side without a glitch; no need for the safety net below. That's just one of the reasons she's World Famous.

* * *

When I practice my violin, I like to balance on one foot. Maybe because of Muriel, or maybe because that's how cousin Matt plays sometimes, and he is almost World Famous. He travels around winning fiddling contests, which, in my book makes him very nearly World Famous. It drove my Mom nuts when I was younger, but I found the balancing act slash bowing exercises routine just the ticket to pass the tick-tock of the clock a little quicker.

In the recital the week before, things had gone perfectly; flawlessly. So well, in fact, that my teacher let me skip my lesson that week, as long as I practiced my Federation piece several times a day, and at least once in front of an audience of two or more people. I flew through my piece, every note memorized. Every crescendo. Every coda. I had the music there as my safety net, and not once during that week did I lose my balance.

* * *

My mind went blank. My body froze, except that it couldn't freeze. Not here. Not now. Not when I was on stage without my music as a safety net to break my fall. The piano went on as I bobbled back and forth with my violin bow, air brushing the strings. I tried to picture the staff in my mind, the place on the page where I had tripped up. Missed a note. Skipped a passage. Nothing. I looked out at my Mom, my stand-in safety net. The music was sitting on her lap. I desperately hoped her eyes held the answer. That the notes could somehow be written on her forehead. The pianist played to the end of the section and stopped. It was just me now. Solo. In a room full of fellow violin students, proud parents and picky judges, Queens awaiting my Big Top performance on the tightrope and I was desperately trying to find my way to the other side. That was the moment I knew I was anything but World Famous.

It was minutes before I was able to compose myself, conduct a little detective work as to where I was in my piece and get back on track. Even then, I was only able to remember a few lines. At the end, I paused at the tip of my bow as I'd been taught, took a bow, and sat down. I was humiliated. Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the next student and the next and the next, all perform unchained melodies that rang through the acoustically-sound room, rendering the safety net surplus.

When the certificates were handed out, I was marked an entire level below almost everyone in the room. I knew it, and I knew they knew it. I had failed. Fallen face-down into the net and stayed there. I was afraid to get back up again. How could I rebound after such a fall?

* * *

The next year, my Federation score was crucial. With my previously poor performance, I had already forfeited my chance at a gold cup. But this year I was eligible. With stage fright at an all-time high, I took my place on the stage. Poised and prepared, I played the best I could. I left that night, not world-famous, but with a gold cup in hand, just famous enough to start practicing my bowing exercise balancing act once again.

There is something to be said for taking risks. For preparing. For getting up on that tightrope and taking the first step...and the second...and the third. For putting one foot in front of the other until you slowly reach the other side, not matter how long it takes. Stand tall. Breathe deep. Plant your feet firm. Keep your head level and your eyes skyward. Then, if you happen to fall, take advantage of the rebound. Enjoy the possibilities of it. Sure there will be other performers around us whose lives are an unbroken chain of perfect melodies. Those who hit every note. However, for most of us the ascending path is punctuated by times of descent and downfall. But, there is always a second chance. As the author Sam Keen (who knows a bit about falling into nets himself) states, "What I have managed to create after falling has often turned out to be better than the trick I planned. Failing gives fallible human beings the chance to start over." This is why man, woman, and society needs a safety net. Even World Famous girls name Muriel.

Confession...

I like when people spell favorite: favourite.

joy ride

It was one last joy ride. Just the girls. A quick out-and-back and we'd be home in time to head to the airport. My fifteen year-old self had never been behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, but this was a golf cart. How hard could it be?

K and I lurched out of the driveway, my feet unaccustomed to the touch-and-go of the gas pedal. We toppled over the gutter and out onto the golf cart path, rain slapping against the roof as we headed toward our new (as in mere moments before) favorite hill. I'd watched my Dad navigate the same path- a little give-and-go at the top and down through the puddle. We were all giggles with him at the helm; giddy at the size of the puddle, the sound of the splashing, and the realization that the rain flaps actually did their job, water rushing down the windshield like the tide headed back out to sea.

It happened so fast. One second K and I were on the path, all smiles and sandwiched between the thick Georgia forest. The next second, K was screaming at the top of her lungs like Drew Barrymore when she spies E.T. in the closet. I couldn't blame her. We completely missed the fairway, our puddle of joy, hole-in-one at the bottom of the hill. I lost control of the golf cart, and we were headed straight for the creek, leaving a trail of trampled saplings behind. The breaks locked and, just as K got her second wind, we came to a screaming, screeching halt, stopping mere inches from the edge. Two wheels tottered over the creek. The other two stayed earth-bound, stuck in soggy forest mud. The cart had stopped. The screaming had stopped. It was as if the forest itself had paused to breathe a sigh of relief. All we could hear was the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof. And the rushing of the creek just below our feet. We were stuck in our own bunker, a literal mud hole, strokes away from our hole-in-one puddle.

After this much needed moments worth of silence (my ears were ringing at a pitch that would shatter a champagne glass, thank you K) we both burst out laughing. We were hysterical! We laughed so hard in fact, that our guffaws threw off our center of gravity, which was the only thing keeping us from diving nose-first into the rushing creek. With a "whoa!" from both our mouths, we ceased all laughing and steadied ourselves. We needed a plan. K would put the cart in reverse, while I pushed the front wheels up and over the rocks at the top of the creek. I lifted the rain hood and inched my way out of the cart, sneakers sinking deeper with each step.

Cold Georgia rain fell upon my hands while I tried to brace both sides of the cart. When I got to three, K was going to gas it, and I was going to push. Up and back. We'd be back at K's parent's house in no time, and no body would have to know. No one would have to know about the last-minute decision to turn back up the hill for one more joy-ride down the slippery slope. No one would have to know that we completely missed the jumbo puddle that pooled itself where the two declines met and formed a perfect parabola-shaped fun-course in my cousin's Peachtree City neighborhood. In fourteen hours, I'd be in Paris and this mess would only be a memory; a blur to the background of the Eiffel Tower and the lavender fields along the French Countryside.

We pushed. Up. Over. Side-to-side. Spinning and spinning, the two back wheels splashed thick dark mud onto my legs. The two front wheels spun circles in the air over the creek. The stench of burning rubber began to seep out of the ground. An encore of smoke followed. This wasn't going to work. We devised a plan which included soliciting the help of K's Boy Scout brother but discluded the involvement of parents, freeing us from any sort of explanation as to why our joy-ride hadn't ended up being so joyful. I quickly made my way back to the house, rain pelting my back as I ran. I told M to come quick; that he just had to see something K and I found. Immediately. He wouldn't be disappointed. As soon as I was out of parent-ear-shot, I spilled the beans.

M arrived on the scene, a veritable hero for the Ladies in Peril. He wasn't amused. In fact, as he shoved sticks and stones under each back tire to help lift us out of the mud (such the Boy Scout) all he said, over and over again, was, "You guys are so stupid. Dad's gonna kill you. You. Are. SO. stupid." His efforts were valiant, yet regrettably, M's assistance wasn't enough. By this time my wrist was literally sprained (I spent the first day in Paris getting x-rays) and my pants were wet up to my thighs. A yellow flash caught my eye. Like a knight in shining armor, Dad arrived in a borrowed yellow slicker and some of Uncle D's boots. He looked...ridiculous. His trusty steed: my sister, who was eager to help (as in poke fun) us in our plight.

With the four of us, one each corner of the cart (K was all dry inside, manning the gas pedal) pushing and pulling in unison, we freed the cart from cascading down the creek. Putt. Putt. Putt. The ride back to the house was literally silent, except for the klunk-rattle-rattle-klunk-klunk of the golf cart and the rain on the roof. K tried to assure me that it had always made that sound; that her Dad never knew why. I didn't buy it. What I came to terms with was the fact that I might have to buy a new golf cart. I held my wrist against my chest the whole way as I subtracted the price of a new golf cart from my Paris spending money, sending me into imaginary overdraft before we even left U.S. soil, or, in this case, U.S. mud. Safely inside the garage, my Dad put the golf cart in park. As he turned the key, he looked into the back seat. "No one has to know about this. It can be our little secret. Go tell Aunt S to stick your pants in the dryer. We've got to get going." I breathed an audible sigh of relief as K and I slipped in the back door.

We ended up spilling the beans. It all came out in a medley of nervous notions and hilarious hiccups, each with our own version of what went wrong. In the end, I was to blame, but no one pointed their finger. Ten minutes after our confessional, we were headed to the airport, Paris bound. What a whirlwind start to the vacation of a lifetime. One of the best pictures from the trip is of all of us, Rich in Dad's arms, in front of the Eiffel Tower. I've got a brace on my wrist placed there by the local docteur in Noisy le Roi all because of a last-minute spin by two teenagers in a golf cart. Looking back, it's one of the best stories I have with K. There are many, so it is hard to choose.

votes for women

Kas is glued to the TV switching between CNN and ABC. Steph is buying boots online, she can't decide which. Mern just brushed her teeth and is now safely in her red chair. Steph and Mern laugh every time someone says "caucus." I've got my laptop and Grandma's blanket and am blogging as we watch the states change colors. No surprises here.

p.s. Did they really just make Will i am a hologram on CNN? Seriously.

Confession...

...Sometimes spending other people's money is hard.

white house. black door.

A few Sundays ago, Mom and I walked passed Aunt B's house. I glanced, as I always do, at the front door. The door that used to be black and is now white; the entrance to a childhood full of happy Sunday afternoons and lazy summer days. "Do you ever think of her when you walk by here?" I shot my Mom an of-course-I-do glance from my side of the sidewalk square. Mother-daughter silent-message relayed, she then asked, "OK. Well, what do you think?" Wanting to avoid the on-the-spot and a somewhat public display of emotions that suddenly crept up on me like the chill of the fall evening, I simply stated, "Just that I spent so many years making such happy memories there." I paused. "And that I miss her." That was about as far as I could go, at least out loud. My mind went farther, though, and so did my feet as I walked down the block alongside my mother.

Aunt B was a believer. She believed in the power of the human spirit, and that anyone could do anything they set their mind to. She believed in using fine silver for the every day and that no thing was too fragile to the touch of a child. Her house was the place where sister could climb to the highest branch in the pine tree out back, and mom would never have to know. I could bedeck myself in her most expensive jewels, fastening the clip-on earrings to my six year-old lobes all by myself as I sat at her vanity. It was a place where we celebrated Christmas in July, or just because it was Tuesday, as we drank sparkling cider and jingled sleigh bells at the kitchen table. At Aunt B's, the in-house restaurant never closed and she never tired of playing the role of sous chef, taking orders from sister and me, unseasoned though we were. The freezer of cherry chocolate bon bons was bottomless. Croquet rules were made to be broken, added to, or ignored altogether. The dancing sprinklers (as we liked to call them) could run for hours at a time, no matter the temperature of the afternoon, and two scoops of ice cream were a necessity.

I've walked passed her little white house dozens upon dozens of times since she's been gone. My feet know how exactly how many steps to take from the church steps to her front door. My head knows the memories housed between the walls of her white-bricked residence and my heart knows that although the gold pineapple door knocker is no longer there to be knocked, I can visit those memories whenever I wish and they will forever resound in my mind.

Confession

It's easy to disappear into the interiors of the worlds I create for others. To insert myself between the ticking stripes; stuff myself into the drawers of mahogany buffets or hide in cupboards under the stairs. Following my first instinct comes instantly when I'm making decisions that aren't my own. I trust my gut. Speak my mind. Tell them to go with the red paint or to put the contemporary fabric on the couch that may seem like a juxtaposition. It will make a statement. When it comes to making decisions that will affect me, it's not so easy. The lines in the patterns blur. The floor plan isn't as clear; the footprint indecipherable. I can't hop from one room to the next with such designer's ease, encapsulating creativity at every corner.

We talk about it all the time - how we want to be that girl. The one with her Life put together. The classy, elegant, timeless girl with shoes for every occasion. The one with a social calendar full of black-eyeliner-worthy nights out and enough close friends for cozy, meaningful nights in. The girl who can pull off pearls and a Free Tibet t-shirt all in the same outfit. Sometimes, (a lot of today) I wish I was that girl.

announcing...

Please see here.

abode

I step away from the crowd and over towards the new lots. In the moonlight, I walk the footprint of the soon-to-be house, authorizing a self-guided tour. I drown out all the clamor, installing insulation and drywall to soundproof noise from the outside. I can smell the cement, wet from raindrops who just Geronimo-ed it from the thick clouds over head. The ground underfoot is solid. I feel its thickness under my feet as I walk the perimeter. One step at a time, my toes tap the tips of rebar, the bone structure of the house left exposed until the timber arrives.

In my mind I create a pleasing floor plan: Round table and banquette here. Island there. The stairs should come to a landing here and then turn, I think, a pirouette the punctuation of my self-validated point. Up they'll go to the second level where the reading nook will nest beneath the eaves of a dormer window. I raise my arms, my on-the-spot measuring tape, and imagine a slightly bigger kitchen window above the sink to frame the mountainside. French doors set apart the formal dining area, recognizable only now by the way the footprint jogs at an angle creating three sides. Without thought, the tiny back entry morphs into a mudroom in my mind with vertical shelving and cubbies for ballet shoes and soccer cleats. I pause, one arm folded, my finger tapping my chin. I take it all in, and, in a very Mary Poppins way, nod my head as if the children had just tidied up the nursery to my consent. "Well begun is half done," I say.

With one more step, I pop out the prospective back door, closing it behind me. My two feet land in the dirt of the construction site. I'm back on the ground and back in reality. I dust of my pants and step back into the crowd.

strawberry fields forever

I just emerged from the basement, post problem-solving futon chat with the ladies here at our YBH. Although we didn't come to any ground-breaking conclusions nor solutions to Life's Great Complexities, we do know this: Life is better together, even if we haven't slept for days and the house is still a post-party mess, two days post-party. The glass if half-full, and things look better from this side, where time gets swallowed up by late-night laughter and too many German gummy strawberries supplied by our favorite American in Dusseldorf. Thanks, N! Hurry home. We miss you already.

One down, twenty-nine to go. NaBloPoMo, here we go!