***
I took Gemma to a birthday party at the roller rink this weekend. I mentioned last winter that I took both kids often on Friday mornings for "Pixie class" where they could figure out how to stay up without swarming masses whizzing around them. Though it had been about a year since last we went to the rink, Gemma remembered enough to stay up most of the time.
I was among the swarming mass. I love roller skating. I'm not great. I can't stop myself without something to grab hold of. I can't skate backwards. I can't maintain speed while rounding the corners.
But I can dance a little as I go. Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to not dance when the "I Like To Move It, Move It" song comes on?
The song selection, the sound system, the disco ball and colored spot lights--there's so much to like about a roller rink. Thrown in there, too, is the quaint, slightly campy practice of "naming" each skate. There's the "speed skate," in which certain age groups are to skate at once. I do these--slowly, of course--as a public service to the one or two men who show up with roller blades and re-live their days of hockey glory. There are always a few of this type around and it's obvious how much they enjoy lapping me.
There's the "Downtown" skate where they play that song and every time the singer croons "downtown!" skaters are to do a deep knee bend. I do this one because it's good exercise.
There's the "Partner's Limbo," which I did with Gemma. The two speed skating men partnered up as well, and were right in front of us in line. I'm pretty sure they were friends who had brought their families together, if that makes you feel better about it. I know it helped me to realize that their sons knew each other and had partnered up as well.
They were self-conscious enough about it to turn to me and say, "We won't hold hands until the game actually starts--that would be weird."
I laughed. Said, "The two best skaters here should be partners!" And they both shrugged off the compliment in the way that shows they were, in fact, glad to have received it.
One said, "There's a big chance we're going to make fools of ourselves." He was not wrong. This was limbo-on-skates. . .
I said, "I'm just hoping I don't do anything that is going to show up on YouTube and go viral." There were many birthday parties there, far too many recording devices to count.
So we limboed. The men didn't even attempt the 3rd setting. Gemma and I did. She got through, I felt my hair bump it as I approached, so I stood up and said, "I touched!" and so was spared trying to go even lower now.
Gemma was somewhat annoyed with me, but it was nothing that the rest of the party couldn't make her forget.
***
About the birthday present: I suggested we get a littlel outfit for her friend's doll. Gemma liked this. And she determined that she wanted to make a tea set, too, out of colored modeling clay. We worked all week on it. (Hint to Mom and others who ever try Sculpey or Fimo: It works way better if you leave it in direct sunlight to warm up for a few hours before trying to kneed it.)
She was pretty determined to make 4 cups, 4 saucers and a teapot. Joshua helped, too, and made a serving tray. When assembling the completed pieces together, she placed the teapot on the tray Josh made.
He said, "Hey, Gemma, that's a serving tray."
Immediate response: "I know. And the tea needs to be served."
Cheeky!
***
Speaking of cheeky:
We have a phrase in our house, adopted from my friend, Xochitl's house, for when our children whine for something.
I say, "What does whining get you?"
And the answer, which they usually say grudgingly, is, "A whole lotta nothin'."
The other day, Josh was whining, I asked, "What does whining get you?"
Immediate response: "A whole lotta yes-stuff."
Get it? Opposite of "no-thing" = "yes-stuff."
But he still didn't get what he was whining for.
***
I mentioned fitness classes in Sanibel with my father-in-law, Pedro. He is quite the role model for physical health. He eats very, very carefully. And he works out on cardio-machines (when his ear is troubling him) or brisk, long walks on the beach (when it's not) and at yoga several times a week (though he pronounces it "joga," which I love).
I've kind of become an avid exercise-er myself. I never thought I'd be one of those people who does not feel right if I go more than 2 days without a work-out. But. Well. I have. There's an entire book to be written about how this happened.
So there we were, Pedro and I, comparing notes on what specific exercises we do for which muscles. At one point, we were taking turns on the floor demonstrating different ab moves--he, from what he's learned in joga, I, from what I've learned from Pilates. Am I too proud to be getting fitness tips from an 83 year old man? Why should I be?
There is a terrific rec center on the island that we get a weekly membership to when we visit. I did several of the classes there. (BOSU! I hate the BOSU. And yet, I love the BOSU. Nothing has ever made my muscles work harder.)
Then Pedro invited me to go "Zumba Gold" with him. "It is with Latin music," he said, his eyes bright with anticipation. Pedro loves to dance as much as I do.
Sure! I've seen Zumba on an X-Box commercial and the model doing that routine seemed to be getting a great workout.
As for the "Gold," I kind of thought it was the rec center's way of fiddling with the name so they wouldn't have to pay royalties to the official Zumba people.
Uh, no. "Gold," I realized as our class mates filed into the gym, is a euphemism that translates roughly to, "For old people."
Zumba For Old People. That's the class I was standing in with my 83-year-old father-in-law, and we were standing in the front row.
Then the teacher walked in. She was shocking. Or maybe it's just that I was shocked. Pedro turned to me and with a wry half-smile said, "I'm not sure how much work this class will be. That teacher is. . .a little overweight."
Folks, there's no way she was an ounce under 200 pounds. And she was shorter than I am, which is 5'4". It wasn't a big-hips thing, or a "meaty" look. She was obese. If she were taking the class, I would not have thought a thing of it. Other than, maybe, "Good for you, girl!"
But leading a fitness class? I think I was. . .annoyed. Like the heart surgeon who smokes cigarettes or the financial advisor who's swimming in debt or the teacher who walks around saying, 'I hate reading!' (I worked with one of those once. . .) -- I was annoyed to be looking at an obese fitness instructor.
I'm not proud of that, you know. I don't know if that reaction comes from being an avid exerciser. I know it wasn't a judgement of beauty or appearance--come on, now, I was standing there with no breasts!--it was just shocking.
Then she took her sweatshirt off and Pedro turned to me again to say, "She looks like a wrestler."
So I think he was worse than I. Right? Right?
The class began. She led us in a simple choreography for each song and she clearly was loving every minutes of the music. I'm sure it was perfect for the golden people behind us.
For my part, I added as many modifications as I could. "Modifications." This is when you do an extra move or a jumpier move or a deeper bend or something else that fits in with the routine and makes your muscles work harder than the regular move. Parin and I used to hate "modifications" when we did classes together back in Korea. Her words, I think, were, "Enough with the modifications! Stop showing off and just do the routine." And she was right.
But I promise you that I wasn't trying to show off. I really just wanted to get my heart rate up. Now and then, I looked over at Pedro and not once did I see him ever actually doing the routine. He was just dancing.
There was a guy in a treadmill on the other side of the glass wall who was looking in on our class as he ran. And he was laughing most of the time, with good-natured happiness, I think, to see that old guy dance and to heck with the instructor.
Her own health notwithstanding, she led a great class.
Afterwards, she came up to Pedro, and I was standing right next to him. She came with a big smile, wanted to know how old he was, and then started up a very condescending speech for him about how he "just has to keep moving," and "how good that you move so much at this age."
This is the thing about Pedro: He looks and sounds like a sweet, simple man with a sweet, simple mind. And he plays his cards close to his chest so that at moments like these, when I found myself becoming defensive on his behalf, he is just laughing on the inside about how this woman is underestimating him. Because, in reality, he is actually a mental giant. And he had said she looked like a "wrestler," so, really, how sweet can he be?
But he smiled and nodded and then said something about how much he enjoyed her class and the music. Then she asked me if I had "Zumbad" before.
No, this was my first time and I had really enjoyed it, too.
Well, she went on, Zumba is all over the world now and there are DVD's and X-Box games and I could do it anywhere! Then this: "You burn 1000 calories every time you dance."
And I thought, "That is not correct. But your belief in those numbers does explain a lot."
She had moved on to asking where Pedro was from. To me she said, "You're not Hispanic, so you are not his daughter. . ."
I feigned shock, "What do you mean 'I'm not Hispanic?' How do you know that?"
She rolled her eyes and shooed her hand at me and said, "I can tell."
You know how she could tell? In her routine, there were several times when we were to shake/gyrate our hips really fast. I couldn't do it.
The irony, I think, is that if Bryan had been standing there and she had been told to choose which of us was Pedro's biological, Hispanic child, she would have chosen me, hips or not.
Zumba Gold with Pedro: Priceless.
***
I turned 36 this past Wednesday. Our homeschool co-op was here and the ladies very sweetly put together an organic-sugar brownie and ice cream celebration for me, candles and all.
I think I look a LOT better at age 36 than I did at 35. (Get it? Because last birthday I was bald, and burned on one side and walking around with just one sad, doomed breast?) But now. . . the burned skin isn't even a shade darker. My hair came back in, reached an un-ruly stage, I cut it (clipped it, actually) back down to one inch and now it's grown back in again. (I can't decide whether to keep it short or grow it out again. But it now feels like my hair, and not like a post-chemo hair-do.)
A year ago feels like a lifetime ago.
***
A sign that 36 is "middle age" is that I actually wanted to stay in that evening, have dinner at home with my family, play a game of "Sorry!"
(What a great game! There aren't many out there that a 4 year old can play and enjoy AND that Bryan and I can enjoy, too. Josh wins half the time. He's very shrewd. . . And at this game, when he drew a card he could not move on, he said, "A whole lotta nothin'!")
This is what "a good time" feels like for me. I'm glad to say.
***
The other sign that this is "middle age" is that the frequency of my doing my mother's thing has been going way up. To whit: Our fridge was full of left-overs. One serving of this, two of that. Dishes that do not belong on the same palate. But food that should not be thrown away. Food that didn't need to be cooked, only re-heated.
That was lunch and dinner tonight: A bit of this and that, heated, set on the table with the declaration, "None of this is going back into the fridge."
Bryan surveyed the table and declared, "It's a smorgasborg, kids!" with great delight, and so they were delighted, too.
Kind of nice, though, for variety, when I offer a bit of this and a bit of that--all these left-overs that may not go together, but go well enough.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
How To Make Painting
First, see the need. Not as in “the need to create.” But as in “You need to hang something on that wall, but that wall gets direct sunlight, so either the wall stays empty or you keep the shades drawn all morning.” Or, option three: Paint a picture of your own and then it won’t matter if the sun fades it.
Go to the sale at Michael’s. Stretched cotton-canvasses are 50% off. You find the right aisle. The biggest one—the one you need—is three by four feet. Those numbers sound small. Before you, wrapped up, sitting on the shelf, daring you to buy it and actually put paint onto it, that canvass is massive.
Your mother is an artist. When you cast your memory back to your earliest years and let the sinker float to the bottom of your faintest recall, this is what you know about your mother. She was always making something. There was a book on her shelf titled The Courage to Create. You never read it, not even the dust jacket description. For all you know, it was about procreation. But that phrase. . . You’ve always held that with you. That it takes courage to create something.
Take a deep breath. Take that canvass off the shelf and stand it next to your cart.
Next aisle: paint. The oils are first, don’t even consider them. You have no idea what to do with oil paint, you would have to worry about it staining your floor because you plan to do your painting right there in your open family room where the sunlight that started this project is because you've always heard that artists "need good light."
Acrylics are down a few feet. Grade 3, for professionals. Grade 2, for hobbyists. Ah, Grade 1, for students, that’s all you need. You would pay for the best if you were planning to paint something stunning and worthy that your children would one day fight over. But that kind of investment—that kind of hope—is too much pressure.
Now for the colors. You arrive in this aisle with a plan. You will paint layers of color and then use a silver marker to write words over them because this lines up with your lifelong conviction that everything is better with words.
The art you already have in your home, like the government issued OWI posters that say “Keep Him Flying!” or “Strong in the strength of the Lord we who fight in the people’s cause will never stop until that cause is won” feature words. And the others are so realistic, they may as well come with a typed explanation of the artist’s point. Knowing that you are going to write something on top of what you paint is the only thing that gives you the courage to be standing here. And, you realize, that’s kind of cheating.
The colors. . . You like that periwinkle blue. And white, of course. And you’ll need black, that much you remember from your junior high art teacher. You look over and see an older lady examining the oils, sighing in the same way you have been.
“They are more expensive than they used to be,” she says with a German accent. You talk with her. She used to paint, and is now getting back to it at the age of 82. You are not an artist, you explain to her. You just want to make a painting. She wants to know what you’re planning, she “oohs” and “ahhs” over your idea and makes you feel like you’re a little bit brilliant and that this might actually work out OK.
You don’t quite believe her. You say, “This canvass intimidates me.”
“Yes,” she nods. “I don’t know that I can take it up again, either.” You ask about this, learn that she was a hobbyist before, but she says this with a wry smile and you think she tried a show here and there.
“It takes courage to create,” you say. She grabs your forearm and nods vigorously, like it was the phrase she had been looking for.
What are the words you plan to write, she wants to know. You think of them. You get choked up. You can’t say them out loud right now. So you sum up, instead, “A scripture that meant so much to me in the past year,” she nods and smiles. This doesn’t weird her out. You explain about the breast cancer, that there were some verses from God’s word that helped you out of recovery and into the rest of your life.
This woman lost her sister to breast cancer. She tells you that you are too young to have had it. She dares to ask “Which one?” and looks at you, which makes you smile because only an old woman from the old world would be so bold.
You talk with her for a while longer and she remarks again that she might not paint after all. So you tell her that, as far as creative outlets go, you are actually a writer. Who’s never published anything. Because you’ve never submitted anything, ever, to be published. “But I finally did,” you tell her. “And it’s OK if they say ‘no’ because the important part was actually making the submission.”
She grips your arm again, nodding, again. “Good luck to us” she says.
After she leaves with her oils, you pick out a yellow because you know enough to mix your own secondary colors. And you take a silver as well. Because you are dying to know what silver paint mixed in would do to an ordinary color.
Find yourself on a Monday afternoon in a well-lit family room. The kids from next door are inside playing with your kids because the school districts gave them a snow day. The laundry is folded. Dishes done. You don’t know how long this will take, but it’s a good idea to start now because chunks of open time when the room is bright are not common.
You know there is a value pack of 25 brushes you bought for the children several months ago. Get those out. Their palettes are too small, though. Built for small paintings. You have 12 square feet to cover. A lot of paints to mix. The easel is downstairs and right next to it is a box of antiques your husband is staging up to bring to the auction house. In that box, find several metal trays that the Army mess hall used for meal time. They are big. Full of sections. Perfect. Will he mind that you are using his antique mess hall trays for paint? Probably not. When it comes to allowing a woman a room of her own, your husband is Virginia's dream come true.
You have bowls of water ready. Soft cloths ready. You are even wearing slippers to keep your feet warm as you stand on the cold tile. Unwrap the 8 by 10 inch practice canvass you bought. Notice that the label says it is "treated." Plastic off, you whiff a chemical you've never smelled before. Huh. Be glad they treated it for you because you certainly didn't know it needed treatment to begin with.
Well. It’s time. Squeeze paint. Mix it. Put it on the canvass. Get an idea of what colors belong there. See what silver does—ah, what silver does! Makes the color rich, makes it almost glow. Before the practice canvass is even done, you love this. You love putting paint onto stretched cotton.
Tear off the wrapper of the big canvass, the Real Deal, the Big Guy, The One. Paint it. Paint and mix colors and paint and paint and mix and paint with big sweeping motions and small dib-dabs and watch the colors do their own thing that you couldn’t have made them do if you tried but they just happened to be there and not here and even the canvass itself kind of does something, it’s so rich in texture. You can’t believe it. As you are painting and watching what it is doing and painting and hardly thinking of anything and
You hear, “What are you doing?”
It’s the neighbor girl. Smile. Keep painting. Say, “I’m pretty sure you can figure out what I’m doing.”
“Painting?”
Yeah.
Now all four children are by you. The neighbor girl wants to know why you’re painting. Your son wants to know what you’re painting. The neighbor boy wants to know if it’s the sky. Your daughter wants to know if you’re going to sell it.
Give answers: Because you want to paint. You can’t say. It could be. No, you’re going to hang it.
The boys go back to Legos. The girls ask if they can watch. Your mom always let you watch. It seems not to have harmed either of you. So you agree.
Your daughter and her friend narrate what you are doing. Every little thing—she’s using the little brush to mix, she’s cleaning that brush, she’s putting on the next color. Then they start offering suggestions and opinions. Tell them, “You can watch, but you can’t say anything.”
“Can we whisper?” your daughter asks.
Tell them, “You can whisper, but not to me.”
Keep going. Keep going until, about 40 minutes after you got the brushes out of your kids’ art supplies cabinet, you finish.
The boys come in. Your son declares that it is a beach. The neighbor boy, too. They are four and they need—very badly—for it to be something. Your daughter tries to make sense of it, too. Say, “A pretty good sign that a piece is abstract art is when the artist is not sure which end is up.”
The neighbor girl nods with approval at this. She has heard of abstract art before.
Clean up. Look at your painting. Consider it. There’s so much to take in, which is ridiculous, because it’s just layers of color. But you can’t help but gaze at it. Maybe that’s because it’s yours. Just as you are convinced that your children are the most gorgeous of all children on the planet.
Your silver markers wait for you. In betrayal of lifelong conviction, decide not to use them. Psalm 1, the one about you—
. . . Her delight is in the Word of the Lord, and on His law she meditates day and night
She will be as a tree planted by streams of living water
Whose leaf does not whither
Which yields its fruit in season
Whatever she does prospers.
Well. No need to write it on that canvass. This is your life now.
Is the painting any good? You have no way of gauging. You suspect, with near certainty, that it is not “good.” But the blessing in not knowing enough to know means that you can enjoy it. You don’t need to submit it to anyone, because you don’t want to be a painter. You just wanted a painting. So you made one.
Go to the sale at Michael’s. Stretched cotton-canvasses are 50% off. You find the right aisle. The biggest one—the one you need—is three by four feet. Those numbers sound small. Before you, wrapped up, sitting on the shelf, daring you to buy it and actually put paint onto it, that canvass is massive.
Your mother is an artist. When you cast your memory back to your earliest years and let the sinker float to the bottom of your faintest recall, this is what you know about your mother. She was always making something. There was a book on her shelf titled The Courage to Create. You never read it, not even the dust jacket description. For all you know, it was about procreation. But that phrase. . . You’ve always held that with you. That it takes courage to create something.
Take a deep breath. Take that canvass off the shelf and stand it next to your cart.
Next aisle: paint. The oils are first, don’t even consider them. You have no idea what to do with oil paint, you would have to worry about it staining your floor because you plan to do your painting right there in your open family room where the sunlight that started this project is because you've always heard that artists "need good light."
Acrylics are down a few feet. Grade 3, for professionals. Grade 2, for hobbyists. Ah, Grade 1, for students, that’s all you need. You would pay for the best if you were planning to paint something stunning and worthy that your children would one day fight over. But that kind of investment—that kind of hope—is too much pressure.
Now for the colors. You arrive in this aisle with a plan. You will paint layers of color and then use a silver marker to write words over them because this lines up with your lifelong conviction that everything is better with words.
The art you already have in your home, like the government issued OWI posters that say “Keep Him Flying!” or “Strong in the strength of the Lord we who fight in the people’s cause will never stop until that cause is won” feature words. And the others are so realistic, they may as well come with a typed explanation of the artist’s point. Knowing that you are going to write something on top of what you paint is the only thing that gives you the courage to be standing here. And, you realize, that’s kind of cheating.
The colors. . . You like that periwinkle blue. And white, of course. And you’ll need black, that much you remember from your junior high art teacher. You look over and see an older lady examining the oils, sighing in the same way you have been.
“They are more expensive than they used to be,” she says with a German accent. You talk with her. She used to paint, and is now getting back to it at the age of 82. You are not an artist, you explain to her. You just want to make a painting. She wants to know what you’re planning, she “oohs” and “ahhs” over your idea and makes you feel like you’re a little bit brilliant and that this might actually work out OK.
You don’t quite believe her. You say, “This canvass intimidates me.”
“Yes,” she nods. “I don’t know that I can take it up again, either.” You ask about this, learn that she was a hobbyist before, but she says this with a wry smile and you think she tried a show here and there.
“It takes courage to create,” you say. She grabs your forearm and nods vigorously, like it was the phrase she had been looking for.
What are the words you plan to write, she wants to know. You think of them. You get choked up. You can’t say them out loud right now. So you sum up, instead, “A scripture that meant so much to me in the past year,” she nods and smiles. This doesn’t weird her out. You explain about the breast cancer, that there were some verses from God’s word that helped you out of recovery and into the rest of your life.
This woman lost her sister to breast cancer. She tells you that you are too young to have had it. She dares to ask “Which one?” and looks at you, which makes you smile because only an old woman from the old world would be so bold.
You talk with her for a while longer and she remarks again that she might not paint after all. So you tell her that, as far as creative outlets go, you are actually a writer. Who’s never published anything. Because you’ve never submitted anything, ever, to be published. “But I finally did,” you tell her. “And it’s OK if they say ‘no’ because the important part was actually making the submission.”
She grips your arm again, nodding, again. “Good luck to us” she says.
After she leaves with her oils, you pick out a yellow because you know enough to mix your own secondary colors. And you take a silver as well. Because you are dying to know what silver paint mixed in would do to an ordinary color.
Find yourself on a Monday afternoon in a well-lit family room. The kids from next door are inside playing with your kids because the school districts gave them a snow day. The laundry is folded. Dishes done. You don’t know how long this will take, but it’s a good idea to start now because chunks of open time when the room is bright are not common.
You know there is a value pack of 25 brushes you bought for the children several months ago. Get those out. Their palettes are too small, though. Built for small paintings. You have 12 square feet to cover. A lot of paints to mix. The easel is downstairs and right next to it is a box of antiques your husband is staging up to bring to the auction house. In that box, find several metal trays that the Army mess hall used for meal time. They are big. Full of sections. Perfect. Will he mind that you are using his antique mess hall trays for paint? Probably not. When it comes to allowing a woman a room of her own, your husband is Virginia's dream come true.
You have bowls of water ready. Soft cloths ready. You are even wearing slippers to keep your feet warm as you stand on the cold tile. Unwrap the 8 by 10 inch practice canvass you bought. Notice that the label says it is "treated." Plastic off, you whiff a chemical you've never smelled before. Huh. Be glad they treated it for you because you certainly didn't know it needed treatment to begin with.
Well. It’s time. Squeeze paint. Mix it. Put it on the canvass. Get an idea of what colors belong there. See what silver does—ah, what silver does! Makes the color rich, makes it almost glow. Before the practice canvass is even done, you love this. You love putting paint onto stretched cotton.
Tear off the wrapper of the big canvass, the Real Deal, the Big Guy, The One. Paint it. Paint and mix colors and paint and paint and mix and paint with big sweeping motions and small dib-dabs and watch the colors do their own thing that you couldn’t have made them do if you tried but they just happened to be there and not here and even the canvass itself kind of does something, it’s so rich in texture. You can’t believe it. As you are painting and watching what it is doing and painting and hardly thinking of anything and
You hear, “What are you doing?”
It’s the neighbor girl. Smile. Keep painting. Say, “I’m pretty sure you can figure out what I’m doing.”
“Painting?”
Yeah.
Now all four children are by you. The neighbor girl wants to know why you’re painting. Your son wants to know what you’re painting. The neighbor boy wants to know if it’s the sky. Your daughter wants to know if you’re going to sell it.
Give answers: Because you want to paint. You can’t say. It could be. No, you’re going to hang it.
The boys go back to Legos. The girls ask if they can watch. Your mom always let you watch. It seems not to have harmed either of you. So you agree.
Your daughter and her friend narrate what you are doing. Every little thing—she’s using the little brush to mix, she’s cleaning that brush, she’s putting on the next color. Then they start offering suggestions and opinions. Tell them, “You can watch, but you can’t say anything.”
“Can we whisper?” your daughter asks.
Tell them, “You can whisper, but not to me.”
Keep going. Keep going until, about 40 minutes after you got the brushes out of your kids’ art supplies cabinet, you finish.
The boys come in. Your son declares that it is a beach. The neighbor boy, too. They are four and they need—very badly—for it to be something. Your daughter tries to make sense of it, too. Say, “A pretty good sign that a piece is abstract art is when the artist is not sure which end is up.”
The neighbor girl nods with approval at this. She has heard of abstract art before.
Clean up. Look at your painting. Consider it. There’s so much to take in, which is ridiculous, because it’s just layers of color. But you can’t help but gaze at it. Maybe that’s because it’s yours. Just as you are convinced that your children are the most gorgeous of all children on the planet.
Your silver markers wait for you. In betrayal of lifelong conviction, decide not to use them. Psalm 1, the one about you—
. . . Her delight is in the Word of the Lord, and on His law she meditates day and night
She will be as a tree planted by streams of living water
Whose leaf does not whither
Which yields its fruit in season
Whatever she does prospers.
Well. No need to write it on that canvass. This is your life now.
Is the painting any good? You have no way of gauging. You suspect, with near certainty, that it is not “good.” But the blessing in not knowing enough to know means that you can enjoy it. You don’t need to submit it to anyone, because you don’t want to be a painter. You just wanted a painting. So you made one.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sanibel Part II--or. . .uh. . .
Yikes! Monday night!
Our church is having a praise and prayer series/yearly kick-off/gathering time for several days in a row and I have been distracted in a deeply good way.
Brief word on that: Whoever you are, do you hear from God? The Creator of the entire universe knows every depth of your heart. And He is not just mine to know.
"Call to Me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know."
That's a promise from God to every person who would lay down her pride and ask for the help of a Savior.
Our church is having a praise and prayer series/yearly kick-off/gathering time for several days in a row and I have been distracted in a deeply good way.
Brief word on that: Whoever you are, do you hear from God? The Creator of the entire universe knows every depth of your heart. And He is not just mine to know.
"Call to Me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know."
That's a promise from God to every person who would lay down her pride and ask for the help of a Savior.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Snapshots from Sanibel Part I
The unexpected part about our trip in mid-December was the weather. The high in the Springs the day we flew down was higher than the high in Sanibel. (Should that be "on Sanibel" because Sanibel is an island? . . .)
Most days, though, it got into the low 70's. While this is colder than the usual, it felt great for us. It was nice not to sweat AND to have temps high enough to enjoy the beach. And, yes, the water was ice cold. Since when does that deter a child from a beach?
***
The very bright side to this weather was that the same storm systems that ushered in the cold front also churned up the sea and washed thousands of shells from the deep to the shore. Sea urchins. Sea biscuits. Coral-covered sea fans. We walked to the beach our first afternoon there and were stunned at the bounty.
Before that day, though I'd been to Sanibel many times, I had never collected a really great shell by myself. Gayl had boxes upon boxes of them already washed and bleached, and we would take some of hers home. Her collection alone was a marvel: How does one woman end up with 3 cubic yards of sea urchins?
I now know the answer: She goes to the beach after a big storm. 10,000 sea urchins died at the same time and got washed up. I made a sampling in six different spots of this beach. In sections of 9 square feet, the average number of sea urchins was 58!
We gathered. The kids were even more delighted than I was with each find.
On a day soon after, Gemma, Josh and I were walking up to the lighthouse on the shore when Joshua spotted a star fish. I looked a lot closer. He was right. That sucker was hard to see because it was the same color as the sand. We picked it up-it was about the size of my palm. Small and cute and brilliantly designed.
Two minutes later, he spotted another. And then another. He has eyes like an eagle.
Then Gemma and I started spotting them, too. It was as though Joshua had taught us what to look for. But here was Gemma's emotional arc:
First--kind of a little jealous that her brother was finding these awesome star fish.
Second--absolutely thrilled that she could find them, too.
Third, and here is our human nature, summed up in her statement, "I want to find a really big one!"
How quickly treasure wears out. And we didn't find any big ones.
***
I have mentioned that Gayl and Pedro hope to move soon. They have been divesting themselves of Gayl's massive collection of antiques, collectibles and memorabilia because their new place won't have the room to store it.
She is almost done with this process. Their "basement" is first floor below their home that must sit on pilings because of hurricane codes. So it's a 4 car garage, and half of that used to be full. Now, she's down to one wall.
Which prompted Gemma to say, "It's not any fun to go into Grandma's garage anymore."
***
Pedro's atemoya tree was producing while we were there. This is a Peruvian fruit he remembered from his childhood and tracked down here in the States where a California grower has developed a hybrid ideal for Florida.
You won't find this fruit in stores, I imagine, because they would not ship well. Bryan thought they were OK. The kids liked them, but in small doses. And I ate the heck out of 'em. When ripe, they are soft enough to break in half with your hands. Then you use a spoon to scoop out the flesh, which is white and with the texture of a mango.
It has big black seeds, beautiful as beads, that are easy to spit out. And it tastes like nothing else I've ever tasted. It's a citrus. Kind of. It's sweet. Atemoya. If you ever get the chance to eat one, eat it. (Which is advice you would need if you ever met this fruit without an introduction. Given only its outside appearance, eating it might not seem like a good idea.)
***
Bryan went deep sea fishing our first Friday there. I went with him back in 1998, before we were engaged, because I had this young, romantic notion that couples were supposed to share each other's past-times and Bryan loves to fish.
About 36 minutes into our trip aboard the "Bobby B," I threw up and continued to do so until I ran out of gas and fell asleep in the door jam of the boat. My afternoon was better as I was empty and the water was calmer. I spent it sitting on the captain's deck, where I asked Bobby B to tell me his sea stories. He had quite a few. I'm pretty sure that some of them included drug use that he did not mention.
Since then, I have not gone out. But Bryan tries to each time we visit and each time, he hardly catches a thing. It's not because he's a "bad" fisherman. Give me a break. You drop the bait down where the captain has parked the boat and you hope that something bites the hook. It's not like he's tying his own flies. . .
This time, Bryan went out and everyone on the boat caught the legal limit. He came home with 3 big ziplock bags full of grouper and snapper. (The crew cleaned the fish for him.)
And, for the first time in my life, I ate an entire meal of fish. Twice, actually! The fish was so fresh, it didn't taste like fish. It just had a texture and tasted like whatever spices Gayl had used for the dish. So, in this sense, it was delicious.
***
We took the kids out one night to see all the Christmas lights on the island. The business go all out. But the best display of all was by the Sanibel Community Church that had decked out their entire courtyard and all their palm trees and hung a beautiful sign, 'Wise Men Seek Him' by their beautiful, huge nativity. . . I had an easy time imagining how much Jesus enjoyed their decorations.
We drove into the parking lot so the kids could have a good long look and Joshua exclaimed, "I want to be a church!!"
Why?...
"So then I could be all lighted up!"
***
Another from Joshua:
What is your favorite Christmas song?
"I Wish I Married Christmas."
***
And another, when we told the kids we'd be going to low tide. (That is, when the tide is low, low, low, we can walk all the way to the second sand bar.)
"We're waking up early tomorrow to go to low tide," Byran said.
Josh asked, "Is there ice cream there?"
***
We went to the Farmers' market on Sunday morning. It was the kind I like--e.g. some food grown locally, several merchants selling tasty things in small quantities so we could get a little of this and a little of that--like an amazing wheat bread, a small bag of figs (which the kids had never tried) and, best of all, a wensleydale and cranberry cheese.
Wow, did I ever enjoy that cheese. Had never had wensleydale before, but Wallace mentions it in one of the Wallace & Grommit movies, so I seized the opportunity to try it.
The whole experience demonstrated to me how much I like cheese. Since getting home, I've tried a new one each week from the commissary cold case--a safe bet like Gouda, an unknown like "Blarney," which I have liked. Hoorah for cheese.
***
We were to fly home on Christmas Day, but our flight was cancelled due to the snow in Atlanta. 3 extra days there! No complaints here. . . Bryan had to leave on Monday, the earliest possible, to get back to work. But my flying alone with the kids is no problem. They are such pros at travelling.
(When we boarded this flight, on which we'd gotten the last 3 seats, they saw that we were in the very, very last row. I was thinking, "Sigh. . . it's going to be hard to get off this plane in time to make our connections."
They were thinking, and saying, "Hooray! We'll get our drinks from the drink cart first!")
On that Monday, then, Bryan left first thing and the weather had turned cold--down to the mid-50's. No beach.
I spoke to my kids in my "Attention! Announcement! Plans for the Day!" voice. They know this voice. They listen attentively when I use it.
"Did you know that when I was a child, my mommy didn't drive? That's right--Grandma Anne doesn't drive cars. She never has. So how did we get places when we wanted to do things?"
Their eyes narrowed.
"We walked," I said. "Now let's get our sweaters. Off we go."
And off we went. I love walking. Getting from here to there. Or just taking a long walk. One of the things I loved most about our time in Korea was that I walked nearly everywhere on post, pushing Gemma along in her stroller. I hardly ever walk outdoors here in Colorado. How much sense does that make?
I want my kids to appreciate walking, too. Especially when they have a whole day to spend on nothing in particular. They seemed to sense that it was an adventure. They knew I planned to call Pedro and ask him to come pick us up when we had gotten "there," and there was something about not having to walk back that made the afternoon spill out in front of us with ripe potential.
Early on, Joshua found a stick of sorts. It looked almost woven, with pine-cone-like leaves closed in all around it, running its full length. It was amazing. He held onto it.
We stopped on a bridge and looked out from there for a while. We stopped for lunch a little over a mile from the house, at the Lazy Flamingo. Soon after leaving, I realized we'd left Joshua's stick on the table and we rushed back for it, but they'd already cleared our mess.
"Did you come back for your Frisbees?" The waitress wanted to know. The kids' meals come served in them.
"No," I said, "We came back for his stick."
"A stick?"
I started telling her all about it, trying to describe it, not because I thought she would say, "Oh that? I kept it for myself, but now that I know it's yours. . ." I just wanted her to know that it really was an extraordinary stick and that we weren't crazy to come back for it.
I tried to console Josh. "I'm sure there are more. We'll look for one the whole time we're walking." We found several other remarkable specimens--a weed that looks like a starfish, these leaves that are velvety and softer than even lambs ears--but no woven stick.
We walked into the trailer park (yes! on Sanibel Island!) where they keep exotic birds and a few lemurs one of whom Gemma and Joshua called "King Julian." (Of course they did.)
By the time we got to the end of our walk--a little shop at Periwinkle Place shopping center where Bryan needed me to get 2 more gifts for his office people--we had not found another woven stick.
Pedro and Gayl came and got us. According to the car odometer (which did not measure our foray into the trailer park), we had walked 3.3 miles.
We told them all about our adventure, including the stick. Gayl found what we were describing in a book of trees native to Florida, and she happened to know where one such tree was growing.
The next day, after we were done packing but long before we had to leave for the airport, she drew a treasure map for us to find that tree. It was in the neighborhood and Gemma navigated for us. There it was! A Florida North Pine (maybe that's not the right name. . . I would check, but it's 2 AM Sanibel time as I write). I've never seen any tree like this one. It's technically not a pine because it's. . .green stuff is not technically a needle. Not a leaf, either. It's boughs are made of these woven sticks, attached the same way needles are. They grow long and beautiful and the kids were again astounded by the bounty.
***
So, this trip was delightful. Simple. The looking and finding didn't happen in Grandma's garage this time. With a beach and a few extra days and good legs to walk on, it didn't need to.
***
There are a few more snapshots to share, but they will keep for next week. Here's a hint about them: Amy and Pedro Attend Fitness Class Together.
Yes, Pedro. The guy who is 84 years old. . .
Most days, though, it got into the low 70's. While this is colder than the usual, it felt great for us. It was nice not to sweat AND to have temps high enough to enjoy the beach. And, yes, the water was ice cold. Since when does that deter a child from a beach?
***
The very bright side to this weather was that the same storm systems that ushered in the cold front also churned up the sea and washed thousands of shells from the deep to the shore. Sea urchins. Sea biscuits. Coral-covered sea fans. We walked to the beach our first afternoon there and were stunned at the bounty.
Before that day, though I'd been to Sanibel many times, I had never collected a really great shell by myself. Gayl had boxes upon boxes of them already washed and bleached, and we would take some of hers home. Her collection alone was a marvel: How does one woman end up with 3 cubic yards of sea urchins?
I now know the answer: She goes to the beach after a big storm. 10,000 sea urchins died at the same time and got washed up. I made a sampling in six different spots of this beach. In sections of 9 square feet, the average number of sea urchins was 58!
We gathered. The kids were even more delighted than I was with each find.
On a day soon after, Gemma, Josh and I were walking up to the lighthouse on the shore when Joshua spotted a star fish. I looked a lot closer. He was right. That sucker was hard to see because it was the same color as the sand. We picked it up-it was about the size of my palm. Small and cute and brilliantly designed.
Two minutes later, he spotted another. And then another. He has eyes like an eagle.
Then Gemma and I started spotting them, too. It was as though Joshua had taught us what to look for. But here was Gemma's emotional arc:
First--kind of a little jealous that her brother was finding these awesome star fish.
Second--absolutely thrilled that she could find them, too.
Third, and here is our human nature, summed up in her statement, "I want to find a really big one!"
How quickly treasure wears out. And we didn't find any big ones.
***
I have mentioned that Gayl and Pedro hope to move soon. They have been divesting themselves of Gayl's massive collection of antiques, collectibles and memorabilia because their new place won't have the room to store it.
She is almost done with this process. Their "basement" is first floor below their home that must sit on pilings because of hurricane codes. So it's a 4 car garage, and half of that used to be full. Now, she's down to one wall.
Which prompted Gemma to say, "It's not any fun to go into Grandma's garage anymore."
***
Pedro's atemoya tree was producing while we were there. This is a Peruvian fruit he remembered from his childhood and tracked down here in the States where a California grower has developed a hybrid ideal for Florida.
You won't find this fruit in stores, I imagine, because they would not ship well. Bryan thought they were OK. The kids liked them, but in small doses. And I ate the heck out of 'em. When ripe, they are soft enough to break in half with your hands. Then you use a spoon to scoop out the flesh, which is white and with the texture of a mango.
It has big black seeds, beautiful as beads, that are easy to spit out. And it tastes like nothing else I've ever tasted. It's a citrus. Kind of. It's sweet. Atemoya. If you ever get the chance to eat one, eat it. (Which is advice you would need if you ever met this fruit without an introduction. Given only its outside appearance, eating it might not seem like a good idea.)
***
Bryan went deep sea fishing our first Friday there. I went with him back in 1998, before we were engaged, because I had this young, romantic notion that couples were supposed to share each other's past-times and Bryan loves to fish.
About 36 minutes into our trip aboard the "Bobby B," I threw up and continued to do so until I ran out of gas and fell asleep in the door jam of the boat. My afternoon was better as I was empty and the water was calmer. I spent it sitting on the captain's deck, where I asked Bobby B to tell me his sea stories. He had quite a few. I'm pretty sure that some of them included drug use that he did not mention.
Since then, I have not gone out. But Bryan tries to each time we visit and each time, he hardly catches a thing. It's not because he's a "bad" fisherman. Give me a break. You drop the bait down where the captain has parked the boat and you hope that something bites the hook. It's not like he's tying his own flies. . .
This time, Bryan went out and everyone on the boat caught the legal limit. He came home with 3 big ziplock bags full of grouper and snapper. (The crew cleaned the fish for him.)
And, for the first time in my life, I ate an entire meal of fish. Twice, actually! The fish was so fresh, it didn't taste like fish. It just had a texture and tasted like whatever spices Gayl had used for the dish. So, in this sense, it was delicious.
***
We took the kids out one night to see all the Christmas lights on the island. The business go all out. But the best display of all was by the Sanibel Community Church that had decked out their entire courtyard and all their palm trees and hung a beautiful sign, 'Wise Men Seek Him' by their beautiful, huge nativity. . . I had an easy time imagining how much Jesus enjoyed their decorations.
We drove into the parking lot so the kids could have a good long look and Joshua exclaimed, "I want to be a church!!"
Why?...
"So then I could be all lighted up!"
***
Another from Joshua:
What is your favorite Christmas song?
"I Wish I Married Christmas."
***
And another, when we told the kids we'd be going to low tide. (That is, when the tide is low, low, low, we can walk all the way to the second sand bar.)
"We're waking up early tomorrow to go to low tide," Byran said.
Josh asked, "Is there ice cream there?"
***
We went to the Farmers' market on Sunday morning. It was the kind I like--e.g. some food grown locally, several merchants selling tasty things in small quantities so we could get a little of this and a little of that--like an amazing wheat bread, a small bag of figs (which the kids had never tried) and, best of all, a wensleydale and cranberry cheese.
Wow, did I ever enjoy that cheese. Had never had wensleydale before, but Wallace mentions it in one of the Wallace & Grommit movies, so I seized the opportunity to try it.
The whole experience demonstrated to me how much I like cheese. Since getting home, I've tried a new one each week from the commissary cold case--a safe bet like Gouda, an unknown like "Blarney," which I have liked. Hoorah for cheese.
***
We were to fly home on Christmas Day, but our flight was cancelled due to the snow in Atlanta. 3 extra days there! No complaints here. . . Bryan had to leave on Monday, the earliest possible, to get back to work. But my flying alone with the kids is no problem. They are such pros at travelling.
(When we boarded this flight, on which we'd gotten the last 3 seats, they saw that we were in the very, very last row. I was thinking, "Sigh. . . it's going to be hard to get off this plane in time to make our connections."
They were thinking, and saying, "Hooray! We'll get our drinks from the drink cart first!")
On that Monday, then, Bryan left first thing and the weather had turned cold--down to the mid-50's. No beach.
I spoke to my kids in my "Attention! Announcement! Plans for the Day!" voice. They know this voice. They listen attentively when I use it.
"Did you know that when I was a child, my mommy didn't drive? That's right--Grandma Anne doesn't drive cars. She never has. So how did we get places when we wanted to do things?"
Their eyes narrowed.
"We walked," I said. "Now let's get our sweaters. Off we go."
And off we went. I love walking. Getting from here to there. Or just taking a long walk. One of the things I loved most about our time in Korea was that I walked nearly everywhere on post, pushing Gemma along in her stroller. I hardly ever walk outdoors here in Colorado. How much sense does that make?
I want my kids to appreciate walking, too. Especially when they have a whole day to spend on nothing in particular. They seemed to sense that it was an adventure. They knew I planned to call Pedro and ask him to come pick us up when we had gotten "there," and there was something about not having to walk back that made the afternoon spill out in front of us with ripe potential.
Early on, Joshua found a stick of sorts. It looked almost woven, with pine-cone-like leaves closed in all around it, running its full length. It was amazing. He held onto it.
We stopped on a bridge and looked out from there for a while. We stopped for lunch a little over a mile from the house, at the Lazy Flamingo. Soon after leaving, I realized we'd left Joshua's stick on the table and we rushed back for it, but they'd already cleared our mess.
"Did you come back for your Frisbees?" The waitress wanted to know. The kids' meals come served in them.
"No," I said, "We came back for his stick."
"A stick?"
I started telling her all about it, trying to describe it, not because I thought she would say, "Oh that? I kept it for myself, but now that I know it's yours. . ." I just wanted her to know that it really was an extraordinary stick and that we weren't crazy to come back for it.
I tried to console Josh. "I'm sure there are more. We'll look for one the whole time we're walking." We found several other remarkable specimens--a weed that looks like a starfish, these leaves that are velvety and softer than even lambs ears--but no woven stick.
We walked into the trailer park (yes! on Sanibel Island!) where they keep exotic birds and a few lemurs one of whom Gemma and Joshua called "King Julian." (Of course they did.)
By the time we got to the end of our walk--a little shop at Periwinkle Place shopping center where Bryan needed me to get 2 more gifts for his office people--we had not found another woven stick.
Pedro and Gayl came and got us. According to the car odometer (which did not measure our foray into the trailer park), we had walked 3.3 miles.
We told them all about our adventure, including the stick. Gayl found what we were describing in a book of trees native to Florida, and she happened to know where one such tree was growing.
The next day, after we were done packing but long before we had to leave for the airport, she drew a treasure map for us to find that tree. It was in the neighborhood and Gemma navigated for us. There it was! A Florida North Pine (maybe that's not the right name. . . I would check, but it's 2 AM Sanibel time as I write). I've never seen any tree like this one. It's technically not a pine because it's. . .green stuff is not technically a needle. Not a leaf, either. It's boughs are made of these woven sticks, attached the same way needles are. They grow long and beautiful and the kids were again astounded by the bounty.
***
So, this trip was delightful. Simple. The looking and finding didn't happen in Grandma's garage this time. With a beach and a few extra days and good legs to walk on, it didn't need to.
***
There are a few more snapshots to share, but they will keep for next week. Here's a hint about them: Amy and Pedro Attend Fitness Class Together.
Yes, Pedro. The guy who is 84 years old. . .
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A New Year
What are you going to call it? "Two thousand eleven" or "Twenty-Eleven"?
I'm going with Twenty-Eleven, because a) I said Twenty-Ten all of last year and b) I never once said One thousand nine hundred ninety-nine.
As for the decade between, I was fond of "Aught" as in, Gemma was born in "Aught-Three."
As for our weekend? I say: Forget Spring Cleaning. What you need to do is re-arrange a lot of furniture and change the entire function of a few of your spaces. This is what we tried, and 72 hours later, there are several corners that have been vacuumed for the first time in, well. . .the point is that we've accomplished a lot.
I'm not sure what that means to Bryan. In a practical sense, it means we finally decided how to use our basement space and our office space and so furniture is finally serving the right purpose in the right place. It is impossible to describe how pleased this makes me. We spend a lot of time in this house. We do a lot here. It feels great to know that we are using this space well.
Does Bryan feel this, too? As recently as the Fall of Aught-Nine, when Sister #1 was here to help, the basement was to be/was already in part 'Bryan's Room.' Including huge display cases full of various combat helmets. We even asked Sister #1 for her opinion as to what would look nice hanging where--the ink sketch of the panzer launching shells over there or here? The sign written in French, translated, "Place of Lt. Duplume, killed by the Germans, 1903-1944" on this wall or that one?
By the following Spring, I had asked Bryan if he would move out of the basement and make way for a homeschool and kids-toys space. To his credit, he said, "Sure." And it's not because he couldn't say "no" to cancer--this was after most of the treatment was finished. He gave up his man-cave because that's the kind of sacrificing guy he is.
Is he as pleased as I that our home better-ordered? His answer: "I'm pleased that you're pleased."
When he goes to his office, his cubicle can look exactly as he wants it to.
Now, a couple months shy of a year later, we have finished the last stage of moving stuff. The kids asked me, when I began this last stage on Friday, "Why are you changing those?" (e.g. moving the trunk from the foot of our bed downstairs in exhcanging for two small tables that are now upstairs) and I said, "Because I'm stir crazy!"
"What's that?"
"It's what I am right now!"
Why so ready for change? I've been trying to put my finger on it.
A few specific notes on our labors--
In some ways, Bryan is a Man of Action living the life of a Man with a Wife and Kids. Are all men like this? I find it slips out when he sets about tasks that pose a physical challenge. (For Bryan, these are not "tasks." As in, twenty minutes ago when we came upstairs to turn it for the night, he said, "I've shut down basement operations for the day.")
So, yes, the "slipping out" -- as in, when he was reaching under the stair railing to unscrew it and make way for the heavy top of the postal sorting table we were wrestling to the basement, he said, to the rail, I presume, "Come on, baby. . ." Like an action hero trying to finesse a hot wire in order to make a last second escape. Only it was a railing. And two screws. And all the time he needed. . .
Another example: We were about to start moving the bottom half of that same postal sorting table. It was crazy heavy. Cumbersome, of course. We knew it would be tricky to wind it all the way down. As we put hands on to life it, Bryan said, "OK, boys and girls, let's rock and roll."
I think all of this is adorable.
Today included switching out some bookshelves in Joshua's room. I found on his shelf, tucked to the side, The Pied Piper of Hamelin. Do you know this whole story?
The piper leads the rats away to drown in the river, sure. But did you know that goes to the mayor to collect the payment that had been agreed upon and that the mayor would not pay up? The piper warned him, but the mayor wouldn't--the rats were dead and gone, why should he?
So the piper played again and lead all the children of the village out, into the hills, through a mysterious door in a mountain, which then shut behind them. None of those parents ever saw their children again.
How's that for a fairy tale?
Gemma and Joshua were suitably horrified. Not quite freaked out. But definitely uneasy. Josh especially.
And yet, here I find the book in its own special space on his shelf (when there are lots of other places we keep books that he could have ditched it). It was as though he found comfort in keeping an eye on the thing that told about what would be most horrible.
My own shelves? Yes, I've been sorting like crazy. Pitching a lot. Re-organizing. I came across the booklets and pamphlets about chemotherapy, and how to love the person who's doing chemotheraphy, and Herceptin, and Radiation, and. . .all of it. I put it into a banker's box instead of pitching it, telling myself that one day (soon, I think) I will try to write a book about this, and I will want these patient "resources" to make fun of. I added to the box the giant bag of cards and notes and letters so many sent to me. The pictures Mom drew for the recovery after my first surgery that illustrated for the kids "Mommy's sleeping" (for my door) and "Hugs This Way" (for the trunk at the foot of my bed, that I have just swapped out for two small tables) that directed them to approach me on the side that wasn't healing. I put my wigs into the box. My hats, too, except for the 2 baseball caps my aunt bought for me that I like so much.
The lid barely fit.
Gemma saw this box and asked what it was. Why I was saving those books. I couldn't answer her without choking up. Done with it, yes. But, like that book Josh put aside on his shelf, there's something about this box that needs a spot in our storage closet, right where I know it is.
Happy New Year.
I'm going with Twenty-Eleven, because a) I said Twenty-Ten all of last year and b) I never once said One thousand nine hundred ninety-nine.
As for the decade between, I was fond of "Aught" as in, Gemma was born in "Aught-Three."
As for our weekend? I say: Forget Spring Cleaning. What you need to do is re-arrange a lot of furniture and change the entire function of a few of your spaces. This is what we tried, and 72 hours later, there are several corners that have been vacuumed for the first time in, well. . .the point is that we've accomplished a lot.
I'm not sure what that means to Bryan. In a practical sense, it means we finally decided how to use our basement space and our office space and so furniture is finally serving the right purpose in the right place. It is impossible to describe how pleased this makes me. We spend a lot of time in this house. We do a lot here. It feels great to know that we are using this space well.
Does Bryan feel this, too? As recently as the Fall of Aught-Nine, when Sister #1 was here to help, the basement was to be/was already in part 'Bryan's Room.' Including huge display cases full of various combat helmets. We even asked Sister #1 for her opinion as to what would look nice hanging where--the ink sketch of the panzer launching shells over there or here? The sign written in French, translated, "Place of Lt. Duplume, killed by the Germans, 1903-1944" on this wall or that one?
By the following Spring, I had asked Bryan if he would move out of the basement and make way for a homeschool and kids-toys space. To his credit, he said, "Sure." And it's not because he couldn't say "no" to cancer--this was after most of the treatment was finished. He gave up his man-cave because that's the kind of sacrificing guy he is.
Is he as pleased as I that our home better-ordered? His answer: "I'm pleased that you're pleased."
When he goes to his office, his cubicle can look exactly as he wants it to.
Now, a couple months shy of a year later, we have finished the last stage of moving stuff. The kids asked me, when I began this last stage on Friday, "Why are you changing those?" (e.g. moving the trunk from the foot of our bed downstairs in exhcanging for two small tables that are now upstairs) and I said, "Because I'm stir crazy!"
"What's that?"
"It's what I am right now!"
Why so ready for change? I've been trying to put my finger on it.
A few specific notes on our labors--
In some ways, Bryan is a Man of Action living the life of a Man with a Wife and Kids. Are all men like this? I find it slips out when he sets about tasks that pose a physical challenge. (For Bryan, these are not "tasks." As in, twenty minutes ago when we came upstairs to turn it for the night, he said, "I've shut down basement operations for the day.")
So, yes, the "slipping out" -- as in, when he was reaching under the stair railing to unscrew it and make way for the heavy top of the postal sorting table we were wrestling to the basement, he said, to the rail, I presume, "Come on, baby. . ." Like an action hero trying to finesse a hot wire in order to make a last second escape. Only it was a railing. And two screws. And all the time he needed. . .
Another example: We were about to start moving the bottom half of that same postal sorting table. It was crazy heavy. Cumbersome, of course. We knew it would be tricky to wind it all the way down. As we put hands on to life it, Bryan said, "OK, boys and girls, let's rock and roll."
I think all of this is adorable.
Today included switching out some bookshelves in Joshua's room. I found on his shelf, tucked to the side, The Pied Piper of Hamelin. Do you know this whole story?
The piper leads the rats away to drown in the river, sure. But did you know that goes to the mayor to collect the payment that had been agreed upon and that the mayor would not pay up? The piper warned him, but the mayor wouldn't--the rats were dead and gone, why should he?
So the piper played again and lead all the children of the village out, into the hills, through a mysterious door in a mountain, which then shut behind them. None of those parents ever saw their children again.
How's that for a fairy tale?
Gemma and Joshua were suitably horrified. Not quite freaked out. But definitely uneasy. Josh especially.
And yet, here I find the book in its own special space on his shelf (when there are lots of other places we keep books that he could have ditched it). It was as though he found comfort in keeping an eye on the thing that told about what would be most horrible.
My own shelves? Yes, I've been sorting like crazy. Pitching a lot. Re-organizing. I came across the booklets and pamphlets about chemotherapy, and how to love the person who's doing chemotheraphy, and Herceptin, and Radiation, and. . .all of it. I put it into a banker's box instead of pitching it, telling myself that one day (soon, I think) I will try to write a book about this, and I will want these patient "resources" to make fun of. I added to the box the giant bag of cards and notes and letters so many sent to me. The pictures Mom drew for the recovery after my first surgery that illustrated for the kids "Mommy's sleeping" (for my door) and "Hugs This Way" (for the trunk at the foot of my bed, that I have just swapped out for two small tables) that directed them to approach me on the side that wasn't healing. I put my wigs into the box. My hats, too, except for the 2 baseball caps my aunt bought for me that I like so much.
The lid barely fit.
Gemma saw this box and asked what it was. Why I was saving those books. I couldn't answer her without choking up. Done with it, yes. But, like that book Josh put aside on his shelf, there's something about this box that needs a spot in our storage closet, right where I know it is.
Happy New Year.
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