Vanilla Wafers and the Future

Tuesday night I thought I might die. Like literally fall over and d-i-e. And while that may sound a little dramatic, in my realm of things slash my then state of constant panic, it sounded better than trying to survive the 24-hours that followed.

And then I saw my high school math teacher and she said It's all about the process, which gave me hope.

And then at Institute we talked about hope and I met a boy, who over coconut caramel chocolate chip brownies, told me he's not so great at math either. Then I came home and read a story about a woman named Hope who survived the internment camps and thought, It could be a lot worse.

And tonight this dude in the front row shared his Vanilla Wafers. And someone in my writing class said my story sounded like a painting. And when we were getting in the car after class we were whistled at. Twice.

And then we ate fresh peaches.
And there were pumpkins at the market today.

So while things seemed bleak, there's hope in new friends who hate functions and dudes who bust out Vanilla Wafers and pass them your direction as the lecture's about to go Snoozeville. And kind people who compliment your writing. There's hope in a box full of peaches and a crate full of pumpkins.

And tomorrow is October and October is my favorite.

to the hip hip hop, a you don't stop

{I'm not going to admit how many times I've watched this, but if a certain someone up in Seattle hasn't done the same, I will be disappointed. And no, I'm not talking about my missionary brother. If he has watched this, it's trouble with a capital "T." And we all know what that means.}

A few years ago, in the wee hours of the morn while dancing in the kitchen, I found out my sister knows all the lyrics to Rapper's Delight. If it had been appropriate, I would have made her sing it at her wedding. I would have danced. Voluntarily. This is a little shout out to her, and to Mr. MKG, who does the sweetest Tootsie Roll this side of the Mississippi. Especially upon request slash force, late at night in the beams of your headlights.

**You can FF to the part where they start rapping (about 1:10).

Song 2

Today I got off on University Parkway, which I never do, but I was craving an "O Red Mango," (that's what my sister calls it) which is located on the eternal stretch of asphalt that is University Parkway in Orem. As I drove past UVU, fond memories came flooding back and the British beats of Blur popped into my head. Suddenly I was riding shot-gun on the way to pick up a little brother from math class, prepped for a full days worth of stories, and an afternoon of gourmet snacks followed by a bit of color theory.

I passed half a dozen car dealerships along that millennial stretch of highway yesterday. Unfortunately none of them advertised a DeLorean (B Money discussed at length his plans to build a gold one at lunch the other day, so if I was really desperate to drive down Memory Lane I could have asked him.) Going back in time wasn't an option. Instead, I cued the soundtrack to the Blockbuster hit, "Levi's Jump" on my ipod, curbed my Red Mango craving and headed to the physics lab.* Gone are the blessed days of youth. (Sigh).

*Boy, could that place use a healthy dose of Unkle P.

Starry Night Over the Seine

Last week I took a client to pick up a few oil paintings. While we waited for her artwork (wrapped in brown paper) she told me about the first time she saw Gustav Klimt's Der Kuss in Austria. It was at the top of a long winding staircase, all symbols and shades of bronze and she was completely overcome. It made me think of Paris and the Musée D'Orsay and how I went back three times. After the last time, we walked along the Seine, lined with bateaux mouches twinkling like stars in a river of dark blue. It reminded me of Van Gogh's Starry Night Over the Rhone. I knew then that I'd never see the sky the same.

just me upon my pony on my boat

Sometimes I wish I lived here. One minute you're surrounded by golden aspen eating a delicious meal right out of the fire pit and the next thing you know, you're twenty miles or so down the canyon out on the lake. And, even though you need wetsuits and hoodies and your arms are so tired they feel like they're going to fall off, it's all worth it for the leaves and the landscape and the hilarious tell-alls in the bow of the boat. (And the character-of-a-park-ranger who comes to jump start you at the dock when you realize the battery is dead before you even launch.)

New Lane

I drove along New Lane today where nothing is really new at all. Time turns slow, like the wheels on a tractor. A farmer bobs along to the beat of his own drum behind the wheel of a plow on the one lane road between two small towns. Painted signs advertise crawlers for sale at the end of a long dusty driveway. The line of the river can be traced by the treetops and an apple orchard stretches on row after row. At five o'clock the sun shines through the slats in a barn so old the only thing holding it up is the bales of hay inside. And everywhere I look the landscape of golds and greens is begging to be photographed.

late lunch

We sat on the patio under the turquoise umbrellas across the street from the little bookshop and the art gallery with the white walls. I ordered a fresh mozzarella and tomato sandwich hoping to bite into one last piece of summer. But, like the weather, the sandwich tasted decidedly fall. We ate Greek olives and yellow peppers while rain dripped from the tips of the umbrellas.

blue.red.yellow.

The two of them looked like a color theory lesson standing on the platform against the yellowing tiles of the subway -- he in his blue oxford shirt, the one with the collar stays, and she in her red coat. Add his dark features and they were a study in contrast, too. The photograph was taken seconds before the final train uptown by the fellow with the poorly tuned violin. He had been squeaking his way through the subway system, one unharmonious symphony at a time.

on the other side of the mountain

This is what the sunset looked like tonight because of the big fire out west. A small crowd gathered in the foothills on the east bench as the moon glowed orange above our heads.

I wish it didn't take something so destructive to make something so beautiful.

inside every turning leaf

When I was beginning to read I imagined
that bridges had something to do with birds
and with what seemed to be cages but I knew
that they were not cages it must have been autumn
with the dusty light flashing from the streetcar wires
and those orange places on fire in the pictures
and now indeed it is autumn the clear
days not far from the sea with a small wind nosing
over dry grass that yesterday was green
the empty corn standing trembling and a down
of ghost flowers veiling the ignored fields
and everywhere the colors I cannot take
my eyes from all of them red even the wide streams
red it is the season of migrants
flying at night feeling the turning earth
beneath them and I woke in the city hearing
the call notes of the plover then again and
again before I slept and here far downriver
flocking together echoing close to the shore
the longest bridges have opened their slender wings

|W. S. Merwin|

in the works

I've been working on a project for my creative writing class (Did I mention I'm in a writing class? I needed some words to balance out all the numbers from calculus and physics class.) I'm not sure what the project will to turn into, but I've been on the hunt for abandoned houses. This weekend I think we found a diamond in the rough. We were afraid to go inside. As soon as we did we knew why. There were dishes still in the kitchen, a computer on the desk, and a bright red chair in the hallway. This place is begging for someone to tell its story. We'll see how far I get. For now, a picture (or two) is worth a thousand words.

blue & white wedding

Pictures from Jane's beautiful wedding.
It was fun to help with the flowers.

The ice cream parlor was such a hit.

Congrats, Jane & Blake!

{Flowers by Mayflowers SLC, UT. Full album here}

You're the Top!

Happy birthday to these two.

Grandma is 91 today*. A few weeks ago I watched her do sit-ups at the gym. Shouldn't surprise me. This is the woman who had 11 children, flew planes, was licensed to drive semis and served two missions. Oh, and has a posterity that now reaches well into the triple digits. That's quite the family tree. I'm lucky to be a small part of it.

Thank you for reading "Winken, Blinken and Nod" in the upstairs bedroom before bed. Thank you for making hootenany pancakes and washing my face in the morning when I slept at your house. Thank you for making bridesmaid dresses and bags to carry my violin music in. For letting us ride backwards in the mint green Ford and for a freezer-full of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Thank you for lovely dinners on your ivy plates at the dining room table. For mashed potatoes, dup, and limpa bread and poems before dessert. For letting me watch Jeopardy with you and Grandpa in the family room. For introducing me to Doris Day and James Garner. Thank you for not getting angry when I broke your ostrich egg from South Africa. Thank you for teaching me where I came from. For Brigham City peaches. For bean bags and dress ups. For being a faithful blog follower. Thank you for teaching me to love art, summer days in Iowa, and pearl rings. Thank you for letting me sit on your lap in church and for teaching me that a measuring tape can entertain fussy children during sacrament meeting. Thank you for keeping the secret of a lifetime on June 25, 1991. Thank you for marrying Grandpa. Thank you for taking care of him. Thank you for the cabin and family reunions. Thank you for teaching me that family comes first and for being the reason my cousins are my best friends.

I love you, Grandma. You're the Top.

*Grandpa would have been 95 last week.

Einstein's Theory of Relativity

I'm sitting on the striped sofa, laptop perched at a 90 degree angle on the ottoman. My notebook and various colored pens are on my lap. Dad is in the red chair across from me. His hair goes sideways, slantways, longways, and backways. (He's a bit under the weather and working from home.) I cue Alabama's, "You Can't Keep a Good Man Down," and tell him it's his theme song. I'm studying the velocity of ants along a graph and my father is working on something legal -- in the sense that he's not doing anything illegal, but also in the sense that he's working on a current case or two or five. How many, I don't really know. What I do know is that with hair like that, he looks a lot like Albert Einstein. Truthfully, I wish he were. Just for an hour. Only because I've got math assignments looming large (I've had my limit of limits) and velocitous ants are busily building hills at my feet. And while I don't know their velocity, (yet) I know they mean business.

Or...

I wish my dear cousin Ellie lived in our study like she did one summer. Oh, if I had a nickel for every time I'd thought that these first few weeks of school. I could build a mighty high tower of nickels, which, as long as we're on the subject of science, would defy gravity.

At Ellie's wedding dinner Dad dressed up like Albert Einstein and spoke in his famous German accent and drew equations on the board as a toast to Ellie and Jeff and their future. He promised them their increases would be exponential. Just like Einstein's Theory of Spatial Relativity, dad was right. So right, in fact, that even if I tried to lure Ellie with oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (her famous recipe) and a Meg Ryan Movie Marathon ("I don't like how you say with your nose all schrenched, 'You're French, aren'tchoo?'") she couldn't be persuaded to leave her darling (and smart) children. So, although I saw her just one month ago, I am wishing she would come again because Ellie makes math better and numbers bearable and just saves the day in general. (I have a feeling Miss Anna would be rather happy to see her, too.) Until then, I've got Dad here. If I squint, he looks like Einstein, and I know if I asked he'd speak with a German accent. Growing up he spent many a night at our round kitchen table explaining algebraic equations one step at a time. For that, for him, I am exponentially grateful.

when spending the weekend in a small town...

• Drive to the end of the canyon with the top down at dusk with David's Bob Dylan cassette tape turned up full blast. Also, play some Bruce Springsteen.
• Introduce yourselves to the city boys at the market while they fasten a canoe to their truck. Tell them you're local. They'll buy it.
  
• Consult the H.A. Rey guide to constellations with a headlamp at midnight when it's so dark you can't see the hand in front of your face. Trespass a little -- the view will be heavenly and the getaway scene will give you an adrenaline rush like you haven't had since high school. When you sike yourself out about recent bear sightings (thank you Ranger Matt), jump in the car and listen to A&J Stone.
  
• Take a trip to the hardware store one town over, past the big red barn with the American flag and the 100 year old Cottonwood trees. Sing Johnny Cash with the store owner while you shop for light bulbs and a garden rake.
• Grill dawgs and eat s'mores like it's the last weekend of summer. (It basically is.)
• Walk along the Weber River and tell stories about Moose-sightings.
• Eat french toast with fresh berries for breakfast.
  
• Take lots of pictures.

{more photos on flickr}

Remember

Stars and Stripes in Spring City, UT 9.11.10

Yesterday

At the tip top of a winding canyon, outside a cabin with very narrow stairs and a wraparound porch, we sat alongside a fire pit watching the coals turn from orange to white to black. Abbey Road tracks spun round and round next to the player piano.

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
It's all right

He made me tell the story about the time I had to climb a tree on a blind date. I wanted him to tell me about the room with the yellow wallpaper, his sister's secret pizza dough recipe, and life in the city with bridges. I wanted to know if he has a favorite. I wanted to ask him if he remembered the time he ordered me sugar free lemonade and then let me eat his sweet potato fries. I wanted to tell him that the gate down the road looked perfect for swinging our legs over. That we could hear the river from there and see the big dipper between the pine trees.

But the coals were turning colors, slowly fading out like a dying sun. Cold air was floating in from the forest behind us and I had to go home and learn about instantaneous velocity. So we drove down the hill to the gate, opened the windows to hear the river, and headed home. The faint smell of campfire trailed us like a shadow.

sweeping summer out the door

Here we sit in the space between summer and fall, where one season breathes in and the other breathes out. Keats called it the "season of mist and mellow fruitfulness," when the peaches are plump and the plums turn sweet. We step with flip flopped feet, peeling toe polish, and fading tans on sidewalk that cools by evening, passed sheep grazing in pastures soon-to-be-gold as their coats thicken with wool to cover our toes with the first sign of frost. We watch trees become kaleidoscopes overnight, turning too many colors to name, and we gaze as the big dipper dips and bows in preparation for the return of Orion to the night's sky.

{photo from Labor Day adventuring}

The Fly. But Why?

I spent the better part of a half hour this afternoon losing a battle to a stubborn fly. He managed to dash his way through the open deck doors when I was letting the dog out. I welcomed his presence at first, the low hum of his hover like the last echo of summer. I shut the deck doors to make sure he didn't go all Lord of the Flies on me, inviting any and all of his fly friends inside, and went about my business.

Slowly his wings picked up cadence and his forceful flapping became incessant and rather urgent. He went from flitting friend to persona non grata. No longer was he like the soothing sound of a refrigerator at night when the all else is quiet. He'd become like Rachmaninoff's "Flight of the Bumblebee." Don't get me wrong I heart all Rachmaninoff. This however, is not exactly what I had in mind for study music. (Although it sets the scene for quite a duel which is exactly what this was becoming.)

Deck doors wide and gaping, I ushered him out politely at first, like an air traffic controller, hands motioning his obvious and safe exit strategy. When he didn't follow my lead but rather sat himself down on the windowsill for a siesta, I had to take a different approach. Reaching for the first swatting weapon in sight, I picked up an envelope and was ready to have at it. Creeping towards the sill, I prepared to lower the boom and bam! I missed. He was off in flight (cue the Rachmaninoff) and I was up in arms, chasing him around the room like a crazy person.

I wish I could say the white envelope ended up with a very obvious black spot and that the afternoon consisted of a post-victory Ali-style float like a butterfly sting like a bee lap by yours truly. Sadly, or not so sadly I suppose, the fly finally stopped flying into windows and flew out of one. Hopefully he's safe somewhere out there in the wide blue yonder.

This whole thing reminds me of a poem by Ogden Nash which dad and I like to quote. It pretty much sums up my feelings about this afternoon:

God in his wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why.