(I am large, I contain multitudes.)*

If you haven't been to the ocean for a while you forget. The smell of salt water in wide open air. The heaviness of your feet in dry sand and the way footprints begin to follow you where the sand turns wet. The way your face stings for a few seconds and how saltwater tastes on your tongue. The sound of the waves crashing in and pulling out. The sensation of slowly wading into the tide. Growing wetter around your middle with each step, the sand beneath your toes turns to rocks and then to nothingness. In just a step, you're without footing, set free out on the water. You are your own boat. Turning to see how far you've gone, you survey the distance between you and dry land. To be sure of yourself. To be sure you want to dive in all the way. Head first. Before going under, you think about how you're about to sink into something so vast, so endless, so much bigger than you and your life on land. Something more powerful than any seemingly significant problem back on the shore. You gulp. You close your eyes tight and go from vertical to horizontal. You let the water carry you. Coming up at the will of the waves, you feel tiny in the tide. Water stretching to the edge of the world, you look out at the expanse and take a deep breath before diving in again. And again. And again. So you won't forget.

*Walt Whitman: Song of Myself

fruitful fields and healthful skies

Thanksgiving started out rather predictable, the Yale Crew gathering for flag football on the front lawn of the church. It's the site where a few years ago J.J. and dad had a meeting of the minds, if you will. Dinner started two hours late that year after both had their heads stitched up. True turkey battle wounds. Dad's scar was still visible last night from across the table. We tried our hands and feet at rugby first, scrumming, running, falling, kicking, etc. but switched to football after K's chin nearly collided with the pavement. The girls were the victors this year. (We had numbers up, and a dad who decided to play for our team, but we'll take the credit.)

Dinner was followed by Charades while our tummies turned turkey and mashed potatoes to make room for dessert. It's hard to give out awards for the best inaudible performances. Steve's "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," was rather memorable, the pinnacle being his facial expressions opening gifts under the Christmas tree. Then there was Mom's "The-Great-Gatsby-Sounds-Like-Cats-by" which had her down on the floor in a noiseless purr. I thought my one-woman-silent-show of "Romeo and Juliet" was rather moving, especially the poisoning scene, although it didn't buy us any extra time or points.

As long as we're giving out awards, I think Susan gets one for her caramel pecan pie, a bite of which I ate for breakfast this morning, amongst intermittent visits to the counter to snack on Grandma's pumpkin pie, a chart-topper year after year.

Football, potatoes, turkey and pie; family, friends and movies in the basement with full bellies -- there's much to be grateful for, and it's not just the feasting. This time of year I miss Grandpa the most -- when our thoughts turn to fortitude, and freedom, and thankfulness. His spot is much missed at the table. We spoke of Washington's and Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamations at dinner. And Dan Man recited "In Flander's Field" from memory, standing aside his Thanksgiving plate. I've included Lincoln's Proclamation below. (It's lengthy, but beautiful):

"The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God. In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign States to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere except in the theatre of military conflict; while that theatre has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union. Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defence, have not arrested the plough, the shuttle or the ship; the axe has enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well of iron and coal as of the precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased, notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege and the battle-field; and the country, rejoicing in the consciousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom. No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union." President Abraham Lincoln 1863

happy thanksgiving weekend

{ryan fenwick via design crush}

wishing for winter

Beth, Kate and I took the shortcut to the library today, choosing to step out into the cold instead of walking down the long hallway with the portraits of the prophets. We bustled along, Mount Olympus to our coatless backs. "I want it to snow for my birthday. That's all I want*," I said as we slipped in the side door. Beth wanted snow for my birthday, too. As long as it's gone by Wednesday so she can fly home, she said pile it on. (Actually, she didn't say pile it on, but it's my birthday and my wish, and I say pile it on.)

Three hours later, as I helped set the table for Sunday dinner, the snow began to fall in big fluffy flakes, like bits of clouds floating down to coat the ground in a soft white blanket.

Snow came a day early, but waking up to a Winter Wonderland this morning was pretty fantastic.

* Fine. That's not all I wanted. I also wanted my brother Rich to do his funny voices. He's home from college for a week and I have missed his many silly voices - especially the voice when he takes it upon himself to talk for our dog. I knew he'd be shy about it since we have company, but, as we sorted spoons before dinner, I begged and out came a granule of gruff just for me. Thanks, Chard. Double wish. Check. Check.

oh, happy day!

Today Miss D and I spent the afternoon rushing around town. We spent the evening chatting at the big table before friends arrived. We sipped fizzy water, made wishes, ate cake and peppermint ice cream and laughed about all sorts of things.*

Happy, happy birthday, Miss D!

I wish you a most delightful year full of all your favorite things
{and the same thing you wished me tonight at the dinner table.}

hip, hip for november babes!

*Hot south Texas rain and jumpers being favorite topics of the day.

don't think. just do.

I don't know who decides what's in and what's out. Trends. Fads. Fashion faux pas. Like how now it's acceptable for brown and black to be wardrobe buddies when before that was frowned upon. Or, for instance, what committee of people got together and decided that in 2009 everyone would take their engagement pictures with bunches of balloons? Or those mustache parties. Explain the evolution of those. A guest shows up at thanksgiving dinner with a really sweet little stache and some kid spends the night on his knee, bouncing up and down, and playing games. He thinks, "This stache guy is A-OK." The next day he wakes up and tells his mom he wants to look A-OK, too. She cuts a mustache out of construction paper and fastens it with Scotch tape, but that falls off fast. So she puts it on a popsicle stick. All the boy's friends thinks the look is pretty manly and they want one, too. So the mom starts making mass-production prop popsicle stick mustaches. After a late night crafting at the kitchen table, the mom passes the mirror in the hall. Smile absent, and eyelids droopy, she holds a mustache up to her face until the corners of her mouth turn up to meet the curves of the paper mustache. Then and there she decides the kids shouldn't have all the fun. And...voila, a mustache party? Really. I'm asking. Occasionally these things keep me up at night.

However, fad or no fad, in or out, I would like to publicly declare my deep and abiding love/appreciation for the person who decided that ruffles are a fashion "do." This person I love to the moon and back.

terima kasih

a most darling birthday elephant drawn by e.
arrived in the post today.

{i love her a million times over}

just add the filling

Many times in my life I've thought I wouldn't mind it if my life turned out like Anne Shirley's. The following story, however, was not exactly what I had in mind.

I was already running late. This, I knew. I was also running short. On cream cheese. One pumpkin cheesecake down and one to go, I mixed the filling and dashed to the store, well aware that I was going to run smack dab into the five o'clock honey-what's-for-dinner? rush at the neighborhood market. I grabbed three packages of cream cheese and stepped in line just in front of my across-the-street-neighbor. (If only I had known she was headed to the market. I could have avoided this whole kerfuffle.) We waited in line while the credit card of the woman in front of us was declined, updating each other on the latest goings on in our Avonlea. Minutes tick-tocking away, I sped home, whipped up the cream cheese and went to add the layer of pumpkin to the second pumpkin cheesecake.

What happened next was very Anne-forgot-to-put-the-cheese-cloth-over-the-plum-pudding-sauce-so-a-mouse-climbed-in-to-take-a-final-bath (min. 5:45). While I was on my grocery getaway, a fly thought that he needed to test my pumpkin filling. I found him belly up, legs twitching in the pumpkin sauce. "I suppose in the end, it was a romantic way to perish...for a (fly)."

The "Oh no's" of moments before turned to "Oh well's" as I looked at the clock and realized I barely had time enough to bake the thing, let alone whip up another batch of pumpkin filling. So, I fished out that fly, said silent prayers of forgiveness (one for killing the fly, another because I didn't plan to tell a soul about it) and popped the pan in the oven. Thirty-five minutes later, I arrived to the activity with two cheesecakes, well aware of which one had been de-flied on the fly.

I imagine there's still time for bike races to the bridge, diamond sunbursts and marble halls. For notes signed, "your chum" and teary scenes at train stations. There is the part where Anne writes, "Averil's Atonement." Dear Diana edits the details about baking a cake. Maybe a Rolling's Reliable Baking Powder Company contest is on the horizon.

*To any and all girls who consumed said cheesecake, it was baked at 375 degrees. I think we're safe. (Right?)

criss cross applesauce

On Saturday after the first real snow of the season, I helped Dad spread out just-picked apples all over the basement floor. He was afraid they were frozen to the core and past the point of consumption. I was, too. Some of them were brown and dented and puckering with the nighttime prick of Jack Frost. They were anything but pretty. I began to pile the un-pretty ones in a corner to toss. Dad carefully scooped them up and put them back with the rest. "We'll cut the bad out," he said. Or, "We can save this one." I was doubtful.

However deep the frostbite there is good fortune in our future: Last night we sat around the table with the R's and ate delicious apple sauce Mom made with apples from Dad's tree, some of which came from my not-so-pretty pile. I went in for seconds, D Man for thirds. The basement is still covered in apples and Mom might be making apple sauce until June, but it is oh so delicious and makes my Dad very happy. (Who doesn't love an Ugly Duckling ending?)

My uncle has invented apples, new species and families of the word inserted into the ever-known idiom, "An ____ a day keeps the doctor away." He takes a branch from one tree and grafts it into one of a different variety and, after a beautiful process of nature which I don't really understand, there are apples with names like the Pink Lady Delicious and Fuji Grannygolds (I made those up, but that's the idea.) This whole apple craze can be rooted back to great-grandpa Kaspar who lived in the little green house.
* * *
There once was a little green house with a little green door. The little green house sat on a large property of land with an apple orchard. Inside the little green house lived a husband and wife who came to America on a big boat from Germany. Every day the husband would walk passed the apple orchard and down the driveway to his shop where he would make cabinets out of fine wood. Soon his sons joined him in the shop and the orchard, crafting and picking. When his grandsons were old enough, they played football in the field opposite the orchard. The apple trees yielded apples year after year as generations came and went, and family football games were won and lost.

A baseball field was built down the street from the wood shop. In the summer, the shop keeper's great-grandchildren parked alongside the orchard and walked across the street to watch baseball games. Great-grandchildren learned to drive in the parking lot outside the woodworker's shop. There came a day when the wood shop was too small for the shop keeper's expanding company. They decided to sell the property and the little green house with the apple orchard and the big open field for football games. The shop keeper's grandsons uprooted the apple trees, wrapped them up, roots and all, and headed south to transplant them in their own yards. A big bulldozer came and flattened the house, the field and the wood shop.

There is a big new wood shop south of the old one. It is built of fine wood, inside and out. It sits on a hill that looks out over the valley. On a clear night, the lights from the baseball field shine bright white down in the city. Like a distant dot on a map, they are a reference point for finding the old property where it all began. The apple trees are now part of a big orchard at my uncle's house. He brings his apple inventions to family functions. "Try this one," he says, handing over a brown-skinned rough-looking apple. "Sometimes the best tasting ones aren't the prettiest." He's right.

air mail: jet it!

Received a bright orange envelope in the mail the other day which made my day. I was home for only a second, but couldn't wait to read it. Much to the chagrin of my mother (what's done is done, mom) I read it in the car. Twice. Why is airmail so much better than regular mail? Is it the foreign stamp? Or the thought of the long journey from one hand to another? John Donne wrote, "Letters mingle souls." I heart that sentiment deep down. (There isn't a lot of Donne that I heart deep down.) I stayed up late last night penning a response. I put it in the post today and hope it gets there soon soon soon!

gutter girls

The other day I found a white John Deere hat in the upstairs closet, the brim curled up. It looked lived in, but it's been vacant for quite some time. Technically it belongs to a member of my immediate family, but in actuality, it's Les' hat. She's the one who broke it in. Every Wednesday night she'd stick her head in that thing, twist it a little to the side and, like a champ, bowl at least a 200.

I've written before about Team 23 and our Wednesday night escapades down in the bowling alley of the Wilk. I don't know that I mentioned, however, that we four (Les, Suz, Al and I) breathed new life into that place by dressing up every week. There was always a theme, agreed upon by the Team. Nerd Night. Basketball shorts and ankle socks. BYU-issue gym garb (we looked most exceptional that night.) Western wear. It didn't take long before everyone else dipped into their own closets and pulled out something of the costume sort. It made our highlight-of-the-week Wednesday nights even more highlightable. Trying to bowl bedecked with a belt buckle was tougher than I thought.

The white John Deere hats were a constant, making the wardrobe cut every week. Those hats were our signature. Our good luck charm. Rabbit's foot. Four-leaf clover in fashion form. We meant business, too. We made a video every week and reviewed the tape immediately afterward, helping each other out with our techniques. We made our roommates watch, too. They painfully and patiently sat through fan interviews and our shaky camera work. (Mostly it was an excuse to make a documentary of our junior year of college and to interview unsuspecting Dance Dance Revolution Champs who played in the arcade behind the bowling alley.)

I hung Les' hat up on the hooks in my bedroom, a Team 23 memento I can see everyday. Somewhere there are three other hats who deserve the same attention and adoration, at least from me.

happy weekend

{hope it's worth shouting about}

source.

teachers and tums

Ms. Locker was a fifth grade teacher at my school. She was old enough to be my grandmother. The top drawer of her desk contained two things: a tube of bright pink lipstick and a jar of Tums, which she'd take a handful of every half hour. A fairly mild-tempered teacher, she would rarely yell but had a punishment much worse (and far more embarrassing) than raising her voice at you in front of the class. If she reached into her top drawer and didn't pull out her container of Tums, it meant trouble. Lecturing all the while, she'd lather her lips with lipstick (in a shade complimentary to her nail polish) and slowly walk towards you slightly limping because of her bad hip. Grabbing your face in her hands, she'd bend down and apply what she affectionately called a "kissy-poo smashy-face," directly on your cheek. Luckily I never fell prey to such a kiss, but I can still picture the faces of those who did. And, I am most certain their souls still bear emotional scars of such smooches.

earth is crammed with heaven

Do you suppose in heaven we'll have all of our favorite things in abundance? Not just the physical things like bottomless bushels of ripe peaches or history-making football moments on repeat. But things like laughter and favorite friends and beautiful music; or sunsets that last for days and green vistas that go on for miles? E thinks we'll all be wearing beautiful white flowing dresses. Grandpa always said there's Snegrove's ice cream in heaven. If that's true, I plan to spend a lot of time in his heaven. I'm not quite sure what heaven looks like, or what it feels like, except that I know that it is all around us, that heaven is in the everyday. Today I saw it in the faces of the little ones who sang, "I'll Walk With You," with extra gusto for their grandmother. Perhaps they'll miss her more than she'll miss them, because I know part of her heaven will be her grandchildren. She'll surround them with her spirit often. I like to think that as soon as Aunt K arrived in heaven she and Grandpa had a joyous reunion over ice cream. Then they hiked the highest tree-covered mountains, singing songs all the way.

(A few of the things read today at the service for Aunt K.
The last is a favorite scripture, one that always brings comfort.)

“Earth is crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees, takes off his shoes." {Elizabeth Barrett Browning}

Psalm 100

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.

Serve the Lord with gladness come before his presence with singing.

Know ye that the Lord he is God: it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.

Enter into his gates with thanksgiving and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name.

For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth to all generations.

"And I soon go to the place of my rest, which is with my Redeemer; for I know that in him I shall rest. And I rejoice in the day when my mortal shall put on immortality, and shall stand before him; then shall I see his face with pleasure, and he will say unto me: Come unto me, ye blessed, there is a place prepared for you in the mansions of my Father. Amen." Enos 1:27

draw the line

I spotted Paul ahead of us in line. He made his way towards us in his tweed jacket, greeting friends and family that made up the crowd along the way. After the how-do-you-do's, he asked if I saw the sign on his studio wall the night of the 100 Year Celebration. I hadn't. He put his finger in the air, as if writing the letters: "'Have you designed something today?'" He smiled when he added the question mark, very Victor Borge. I just wanted to pass that along," he said. He told me about his latest lecture given yesterday to university students. "I remember that one," I said. He nodded.

The design part of the discussion over for the time being, he and Dad started talking about favorite fly fishing spots between here and Jackson. I clipped the line from their conversation and began to run through my design day chronologically. Sure, I designed things mentally today, adding and subtracting elements here and there. I browsed floor plans online this morning, changing the traffic flow for easier access to the main parts of the house. On the way to a client's house today I was stuck behind a service truck. In front of house barely framed, I shifted some windows to the right in my mind, adjusting the fenestration until it was symmetrical. On the way home I added sidelights to a door on a house I passed in the Avenues. But I haven't put pen to paper. That's what Paul meant. His desk is always covered with scraps of tracing paper, mere scribbles to someone else, but in his mind it is all a part of the larger whole. So, instead of writing a meaningless missive, tonight I'm going to sit and design something. After which I am going to put a sign up above my desk like Paul has above his, which reads, "Have you designed something today?"

please pass the tuna

Tonight at dinner he said I could choose anything. That didn't exactly help me narrow it down. Feeling briefly brave, I chose sushi. The thought of a mano e mano with bright pink raw tuna toyed with me. My last fresh tuna tete-a-tete occured about a month ago. I was on a date and I...tolerated it, shall we say? "Sooo good, right?" he said with an inflection as if receiving a complimentary Japanese back massage while eating his raw tuna, which he apparently loves more than life itself, or so his behavior lead me to believe. "Yeah," I said very unconvincingly. I had one bite and ended up swallowing the thing whole with half a glass of water.

Tonight I knew the tuna wouldn't come solo. So, "Sushi," I said. I hoped this sushi experience might be like my cantaloupe experience of the early 1990's wherein, out of politeness, I ate all the cantaloupe on my plate at my elementary school friend's house every day. By the end of the school year, I could manage without incident. Sure, I downed three big bites of macaroni and cheese immediately following cantaloupe consumption, but it got the job done, and left a nice creamy Kraft cheese taste in my mouth. Raw tuna. Cantaloupe. Same thing, right?

Chopsticks in hand, and sushi before us he said, "Let's do this!" (Long pause) Not exactly a stellar response on my end. Mr. Up-for-Anything's voice lost steam upon delivery because I was off in a color contrast state of consciousness, enjoying the two-toned green avocado against the blushing pink tuna, all with a halo of bright white rice. "Let's do this," I repeated, mustering up my best here-goes-nothin' attitude. I took a deep breath and then I dunked. Soy Sauce City. I lathered that thing up right nice in that soy sauce and added more wasabi than most, just in case. Holy Mackerel. I downed those suckers fast! Probably a lot faster than is considered polite, but I did it. And without even a bite of macaroni and cheese to chase it down. I pointed with my chopsticks, gesturing for him to take the last roll. "Oh, I insist." He polished off the last of our meal, not a grain of rice left on the plate.

Post tuna pop, he motioned for me to try the ginger. "It cleanses the palette." Had I known this information sooner, I would have been all over that ginger. "And," he added, "It fends off nausea." The ginger went in faster than the sushi rolls! The moral of this sad (as in pathetic on my part) sushi story: Cantaloupe and sushi aren't exactly the same thing. But macaroni and cheese and ginger? You could stick those two together, no problem.

Happy Birthday to The Bibbs

Happy, happy birthday, sister dear!

You are my most favorite person. Thanks for playing T ball with me and for teaching me to throw a football. Thank you for wearing matching Lanz nightgowns on Christmas Eve and for letting me ride your roller blades the next morning when I got a bow holder instead. Thank you for letting me sleep in the double bed with you at 1936. Thank you for sleeping downstairs at 1928. Thank you for saving me (on multiple occasions) from death by scooter slash ferocious little dogs on Nantucket and for taking me on killer snowmobile rides up Weber Canyon. Thank you for teaching me about politics in the Rose Shop van. Thank you for showing me how to make the yellow banana seat bike into an exercise bike by taking off the chain. Thank you for stealing rocks from the garden at The Ladies' House. Thank you for always mowing the lawn so I didn't have to. Thank you for teaching me how to fight, in multiple senses of the word. You are strong, strong, strong. You are a nurturer. You are a gifted teacher. You are a loving wife. You are a dear friend. Thank you for being my bosom buddy all these years. I am so glad we share a birthday month. Here's to new adventures this year. I cannot wait!

pencils, pears, and forever friends

Miss D is a friend of the most splendid variety. We've only known each other for a year, but it feels like decades. The instant I saw her I knew we needed to be friends. We are only two days apart, but I think had she known I was coming into the world, she would have waited. Nonetheless, we are both November Babes and that is well enough.

She teaches English at the University, is a marvelous writer, can finish my sentences, and finds a way to throw the word "delightful" into everyday conversation. We see eye-to-eye on many things. We both love the sea and warm summer nights outside. The other night when the clouds looked like cotton candy, I sent Miss D a text message because I knew she would appreciate it.

This summer, Miss D planted a garden which grew in abundance. Fresh basil, peppers, cucumbers (which she lugged in her temple bag) and heirloom tomatoes. We both love tomatoes (perhaps she more than I because she wrote a paper about them) and alliteration (perhaps I more than she, but once on the phone, Miss D was picking pears from her pear tree. I heard an "Ahh!" from the other end. Then she said, "I'm being pummeled by pears!" Oh, the oodles of delight it added to my day!)

Hooray for friends, old and new, and for Babes born in November.

happy weekend

{image}

Nights at the Round Table

Today for work N and I went to look at tables. At one store we saw a round table with a long linen tablecloth that nearly reached the floor. What a tablecloth, we both thought. N began to design accent runners while I imagined making a secret hide-out underneath, perfect for pirates and princesses or an afternoon camp out on a rainy day. Regardless of its purpose, we both thought the cloth to be beautiful and filed it away in our minds for future use.

We have a round table in our kitchen at home. Dad built it at the family shop. It's been in all three houses we've lived in and I suppose life wouldn't be the same without it. It's the perfect size for two to sit and share the newspaper and serves as an impromptu music stand in a string rehearsal if someone has forgotten theirs. (I used to shift my violin music from stand to table just for a change of scenery and a chance to look out the window.) It's the place to perch in the fall to watch the crab apple tree turn brilliant shades of golds and reds just outside the window and in the springtime birds eat breakfast while we do the same. At Christmas it's where we put the Swedish starters like the goat's cheese and the limpa bread to be eaten before Swedish dinner. It's where the angel stands suspending the star and singing praises to the heavens announcing the birth of the Baby Jesus. It's where Mom likes to put the latest high school pottery masterpieces. Currently Rich's creations reign supreme. His brightly colored five-in-one vase is there round the clock. Anyone who comes to visit gets a mini history lesson on Chard's magnum opus.

Upon the table's belly are lovingly plotted purple and green Crayola marker doodles from a day at the red brick house when my sister and I were feeling mischievous. It served as the canvas for play dough sessions on summer afternoons. Once my brother made a big salt dough pretzel and set it out on the table to dry in the sun, all curled and crisscrossed. Upon pretzel removal, like a child's shadow outlined in chalk, was the outline of a pretzel, branded into the wood. I used to trace the lines with my finger when I got bored.

In line today at the store N and I professed our love of round tables to each other, and then bought a square one, but the space calls for square. Round tables foster conversation. They look visually pleasing in a square room, and are easy to cozy up to with a large crowd. And, if you throw a large tablecloth or giant sheet over the top, I'm certain they're the perfect framework for a pretty awesome fort.

fall asleep counting your blessings

It's been a bad day and I'm not much in the mood for writing, but I'll post anyway. One of my favorite Irving Berlin songs is "Count Your Blessings Instead of Sleep," from the much beloved "White Christmas." Tonight I'm trying to focus on blessings, big and small. I am grateful for memories of a childhood (and now adulthood) rich in tradition and time with those I love. I am grateful for examples of courage and faith, for people who don't ever quit. I'm grateful for strength in numbers and the force of family. I am grateful for the comfort of home and dear ones close by. I am grateful to know that families are forever and stretch far beyond this sphere. I believe there is a God in heaven who knows what is best, even if for the time being it doesn't seem so good. It is all for our good. And this knowledge is a blessing.

{When I'm worried and I can't sleep/I count my blessings instead of sheep/And I fall asleep/Counting my blessings}

fall is fleeting

Amid the last twinkling light still left in the day, the moon is up, big and bright and full. Clouds drift tauntingly across its face briefly diffusing its beam below. The sky to the west glows orange like autumn leaves and is fading into purple mountains majesty.

This small moment of solitude comes amid the din of a day. I want to hold onto it until the moon hangs high above my head and the stars take off their black cloaks and begin their sparkle show, except the sunset is so beautiful I want to tell someone.

I walk the bridge, interrupting the night's movement towards silence. Fall foliage now underfoot, leaves stick to the bottom of my boots, wet and slippery. My feet hit the stone path. Leaving the traces of fall where they belong, I wipe my boots on the mat. I cross the threshold to the front door and step inside the house. I hear laughter and forks clinking glass plates and little boys chasing each other around the room.

by a golden thread

I don't remember much about Aunt Vie and Aunt Leah, except that they were old. Not old as in aged, rather wise and sweet. Seasoned, yet young at heart. They lived by a school and taught school. Their house smelled old, but not the bad old. Just lived in. It smelled of fancy soaps, and spices and beautiful things. Though age and experiences separated us we were connected by a golden thread like those that ran through the antique furniture in their front room. A thread linking old and young and joining generations. We'd play hand games and sing "Mairzy Doats and Dozy Doats," together in the living room with Grandma.

They had learned and loved and traveled, leaving their mark on the world and letting the world leave her mark on them. There were flecks of silver in their twinkly eyes from walks on distant sandy shores. Rosy spots on their cheeks from sunny days on the highest hilltops. Secret spices from far away lands baked right into their world-famous ginger snap cookies kept in a tin on the counter for the taking. Like birds gathering twigs, they had picked up little pieces of the world and brought them back to their little nest of a house on Roosevelt Avenue, beautifying it for any and all who might land there.

When Leah became too ill to care for herself, she spent most of the time in her bed. She would have Aunt Vie would braid her hair. I imagine they would talk of their adventures, each strand of hair joined together like a memory, creating something beautiful and full and round, like Leah's life. We would take turns sitting beside Aunt Leah, holding her hand and telling her what we were learning in school. There was a large dresser directly across from her bed that held keepsakes and treasures from her travels. I could see my reflection next to hers. There we were young and old, connected by an unbreakable chain stretching through time and space, across continents and country borders. Through thick forests. Along the ocean floor. Across open plains with wind-blown wheat fields, right back through the front door of the Roosevelt house.

When Leah moved onto the place beyond this world, it was Aunt Vie's turn to let time slowly sift away at her. Grandma came to look after her then, keeping the house in order. She braided hair, perfected the ginger snap recipe and and sang songs with us by Aunt Vie's bedside.

Grandma is still here in her own house full of furniture with golden threads, the link from this life to the next. She keeps her sisters close in spirit and in deed, still singing, "Here's a Ball for Baby," and "Mairzy Doats." The other day among Grandpa's things I found some mirrors of Aunt Leah's. I picked them up and stared at my reflection. As if looking through a window to what used to be, I was back in the front room on Roosevelt with the green chairs. The golden thread glistening off the glass.

a blue book beginning

With the beginning of another November comes the arrival of another National Blog Posting Month, something which brings with it equal amounts of dread and delight. Last night as I tried to fall asleep I felt it coming on. I felt the pressure building. The thoughts piling up in front of an empty blue book eager to be filled with thoughts. I wanted to slip my fingers between the seal. To break it. To begin. Making mental notes on mental paper, I hoped something would stick. Ideas flooded in and out. In the end, weariness claimed the victory as my mind bought up real estate in Dream Land. The thought of one more day a soothing lullaby, I drifted off.

Just like last year, my dear E (fellow lover of words, fellow participant, and the one who got me into this mess three years ago) is a world away. She won't be participating this year because she's spreading The Word in a much more important way. Regardless of the fact that I won't have her daily thoughts as inspiration to keep going, I shall trudge on, knowing I'm one of thousands who'll sit at a computer to write every day for a month. I'm certainly not promising greatness, but I will promise to try. All of these thoughts have to land somewhere.