happy weekend

{image}

under a silver moon

Last night under twinkle lights, we ate strawberries and peanut butter bars with chocolate on top. We turned pages and stopped to enjoy the sunset. We talked until the candles burned dim and the air turned cool. I drove down the hill into the city under the sliver of a silver moon.

bobcat days

It's summer's end and I can now hear the school bell from my bedroom window. It chimes several times a day, announcing the beginning of a new year and new adventures for all Bonneville Bobcats.

* * *

On most nights, Dad would read to us. He'd sit between our two twin beds at 1936 and prop himself up against the wall. I'd always ask if he wanted a pillow, but he hardly ever said yes. First he would read from the scriptures. He'd open our big blue family copy, studiously fingering the verses to see where we'd left off the night before. My sister liked to say, "We were on the part that says, 'And it came to pass.'" He started to read "The Hobbit," but I made him stop because I was too afraid; especially when he would do his Gollum voice. Instead, he read "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Ramona the Pest."

Sometimes I would walk to the neighborhood library after school with Ashley and Katie. After a failed attempt at liking "Sweet Valley High," (which is what Katie and Ashley liked best) I read everything Beverly Cleary on my own. I was certain that although she was younger, Ramona the Pest was just like my older sister, and I was like Beezus, the sister who never did anything wrong.

In fifth grade I stopped reading Beverly Cleary. In fifth grade I had Mr. Miller. He loved math, Michigan, and U.S. history; and his face turned really red when he got mad. Sydney, a girl in my class, liked to read the dictionary when she was bored. Mr. Miller would get mad at her for not paying attention when he was trying to teach us the state capitols. Once, he turned me upside-down in front of the whole class to demonstrate inverted fractions. My face got pretty red.

That same year, I was Charlie Chaplin in the Great Americans Parade. Natalie was Benjamin Franklin. She wore knickers and a vest and stuck a pillow up her shirt. Her mom made her wire bifocals and she carried a hot dog skewer with a kite on the end. She had to tell the audience about how she discovered electricity. I didn't have any speaking lines, I just had to waddle like Charlie Chaplin in front of the whole school, which was worse. I had a crush on the boy who played Paul Revere and a secret crush on the boy who played Nathan Hale. I still remember all their lines.

Our required reading that year was a chapter book about the Revolutionary War. Natalie and I would go home for lunch to finish our reading. We'd eat macaroni and cheese while my Mom read to us about Bunker Hill, tea parties and taxes.

One Sunday morning we woke up to toilet paper streaming down from trees in our backyard. By the time we were ready to leave for church, Brad and his little brother were outside with a broom, reaching high up into the cherry tree to clean up their mess. I watched them bundle all the paper up and walk back down the street to their house. I wished it was the boy who played Paul Revere and not Brad and his brother. Fifth grade was the first time I went toilet papering. I spent the night at Katie's house and we toilet papered her next-door-neighbor at eleven.

* * *

I hear children trickle out to recess. Slowly, the playground fills with excited voices, bouncing balls, and girls skipping rope.

oh, thank heaven

27 years ago today this girl was born. And we all did shout for joy and the world was a better place. Happy birthday, Mare. I truly love you das mostest.

what i've been up to

road tripping.family.softball.picture-taking.memory-making.girl talk.rocky mountains.zip line.helmet head.campfire.s'mores.birthday cake.long dinners.
wild flowers.m&m's.aunts.uncles.cousins.design scheming.daydreaming.colorado.reading.canoeing.baby-holding.surprise party.guitars.hot chocolate.pine trees.cabin.open air.fruit shakes.late nights.early mornings.bunk beds.rain.fishing.hiking.singing.dancing.

happy weekend, wherever you are and whatever you're doing.

happy weekend

My beautiful cousin, Emily, gets married this weekend. After a ceremony in the city, we're headed up to the mountains to celebrate. Happy weekend, all.

{image via this is glamorous}

Curvy Wurvy

Dad used to drive a gold Mazda GL. If I look long enough during The Early Years slide show in that plays periodically in my head, I can still see it parked in the back of the red brick house. He taught my sister to drive up the private road to the cabin at age twelve (news which wasn't public knowledge, especially to my mother, until years later) and he'd let me shift the gears when it was my turn in the front seat. It was the car Dad drove to the office. The car my parents would take on dates. The car we'd watch for every day at six o'clock in the big picture window, excited when we'd see it turn east on 900 South, Dad's hands on the steering wheel.

Saturdays, Dad drove the little gold Mazda to Don's Service Station at the corner of 21st and 13th where he'd fill up the car for the week. Ever the quintessential neighborhood mechanic, Don knew everyone by name, and took each customer's hand in his grease-stained one upon arrival. He was the kind of mechanic who would check your tires, wash your windows, and, fill up your tank. Not only did Don and his crew in blue shirts provide full-service, they also provided free popcorn in 25 cent bags. So, while Don filled the car and checked the oil, I'd follow closely behind Dad. He'd fill up a bag of popcorn, brimming. Pay for the gas and we'd head out excited to share when we got in the front seat. The unconventional mingling of the smell of popcorn and gas fumes didn't seem to bother me, as it created an unexpected perfume of Saturday memories in my mind.

On weekends, Dad would drive the babysitter home in the gold car. If it wasn't past our bedtime, sister and I got to tag along. Back when seat belts weren't such a necessity (or before we knew better) sister, our favorite babysitter and I would ride toboggan-style, pulling down the seats in the back to lie belly-down. Our legs stuck deep into the the trunk. The headrests our only stability, we'd hold with all our childish might in preparation for what Dad called "Curvy-Wurvy." He'd let go of the steering wheel (which, in our five and six year-old minds was sinful yet heroic at the same time). He'd lift off on the gas and let the car coast towards the edge of the street, missing garbage cans and curb sides by mere inches. Fear and excitement would rise up within me; I'd tuck my head down into my arms and gear up for a crash. Just as I feared we'd begin our own percussion section of a symphony, trash lids strewn about the street like clamoring cymbals, he's grasp the steering wheel and route us back to the center, only to repeat this same pattern of curving and "wurving" through the neighborhood streets, at what we believed in our little minds was warp-speed.

Sometimes, on family road trips, Dad will get this twinkle in his eye. I'll notice it from the rearview mirror. In a "are-you-thinking-what-I'm-thinking?" moment, and, before Mom catches on, his hands come off the wheel, his foot off the pedals, and before we know it, we're headed straight for a green garbage can. We don't wind through the whole neighborhood anymore, but for just a moment, excitement rises up within me, I hold my breath, and cross my fingers we all end up in one piece, including the trash can.

Swallowed Whole

Remember that time we stood here and watched the glowing orange sun, so big and round, get swallowed in the sea? Then I thought of this song:

And I could write a song
A hundred miles long
Well, that's where I belong
And you belong with me

The streets you're walking on
A thousand houses long
Well, that's where I belong
And you belong with me

You belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea
Yeah, you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea.