Had a meeting this morning with Sr. Mary about Atrium. It started to make me panic, because I realized tomorrow is August and I have two months to get it together.
For those who don't know, Atrium is shorthand for Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, which is a montessori-style catechism program for young children. Usually Catholic, although sometimes adapted for Anglican/Episcopalian and other strong liturgical denominations, it introduces children ages 3-6 to the very foundations of our faith. I spent the past school year going to training sessions, overwhelmingly long and involved training sessions, and have developed my album pages, built some materials, had my dad build some others, and generally was getting ready to, oh, in a few years, think about starting an Atrium.
Last year I was also the assistant at the St. Margaret's second level atrium, ages 6-9, with Therese. She had just finished her level three training, and was anxious to help shepherd older children through to confirmation. Thing was, you really can't have one atrium for all three levels. You can put 6-9 in with either younger or older children, but the materials do not overlap enough for the very young to be in the same room as the oldest children. It would be overwhelming. So it looked like she wasn't going to be able to do all three (since the youngest level is really the most important). But things align, as they seem to when you let it go a bit, and we have a room at Pius that would be perfect for a level one atrium. We could have children from both parishes there, who would then be welcome to go on to levels two and three over at St. Margaret's. When I tentatively suggested this in April, Therese looked at me in a way that made it clear that this is the way it would happen. No question.
So in some ways, I have it easy. Therese has lots of materials she won't use in her older atrium settings that I may use at Pius until I make my own (the catechists make all their own materials, or have parishioners and other helpers with skills in those areas assist as a ministry). I have a partner who is also trained and has run an atrium before. We have some shelving and chairs and tables. We probably have enough of what is called "practical life" to get us started. We have access to the infancy narratives materials and the articles of the Mass.
But the details.
Down to the matchbooks, everything in the atrium is to be beautiful and functional. Everything, in true montessori tradition, has a place, a shelf, a tray. The table for flower arranging, for instance, which is part of practical life, not part of catechism (but is included because flowers are part of keeping care of a church--in some ways, we are preparing children to become sacristans), involves the following:
1 large vase for original flowers
1 wooden or plastic tray for smaller vases
A collection of small bud vases, perhaps 6-8
1 pitcher for water
1 pair of scissors
1 tray or small dish for scissors to rest upon
1 funnel
1 small dish for funnel to rest upon
1 mat for cutting stems (like a place mat), or, alternatively, a shallow dish of water to cut stems under water (good habit to introduce)
1 bucket or sturdy container under table for stem and leaf waste
Small stack of washcloths or other clean-up rags (but folded and nice, not torn and wadded in a bucket) on a lower shelf or in a central location to other water projects
Flowers
So...the idea of flower arranging is one thing. But the details of all the little dishes and all the little things required is quite another thing. Sometimes if I think about it too much, I start to despair. But the good news is that Alicia is with me, the pastor and pastoral associate are interested in this going well, and my dad is a woodworker. Seriously.
I am excited. And worried. And excited again. And worried again.
But it will all be well.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
School Supply Memories
Texan Mama just wrote about purchasing school supplies for her kids. All I can say in response is "hear! hear!" But it did get me thinking about such things.
Sophia's school has a once a year fee, since so many supplies are shared. Last year I was never asked to send in a new box of crayons or a three ring binder. She just went to school. They are the Queens of Scrounging over there, and do ask for donations of stuff that we have around. But it's never "You need 12 pack Crayolas and Big Chief Tablet #4 only and blunt tip rubber handled Fiskars Brand scissors age 4-8."
When I taught middle school, there might have been lists, but I don't remember anything being standardized. Some brought kleenex, I recall. When I taught in the city schools, there was no list. No supplies came from home because nobody had any money. Of course, the school had no money for supplies either and so this was indeed a challenge. And the year at the private west county school, of course, had everything included in the astronomical price tag.
But it was the year I taught at a south side all-white Catholic school that had the list. I inherited the first grade list from the previous teacher. I had no choice in the matter. Every student had six folders, in each rainbow color, that sat useless at the bottom of their cubby-hole desks all year. Every student had a stenographer's notebook, for reasons I never understood. The same crayons, the same writing tablet, the 15,000 boxes of kleenex and paper towel rolls I had to figure out how to store. And most mystifying: emergency food packs. Just in case there was an earthquake or tornado and we were trapped in the (3rd floor) classroom for a week. Everyone brought a rubbermaid box, bigger than a shoe box, with "non-perishable" food and bottled water. For me to store somewhere. And have kids sneak food from all year--because parents' ideas of emergency food was not the same as mine. Packages of M&Ms and fruit roll ups could, I suppose, technically keep you alive, but I didn't need 24 boxes of junk in my cloakroom.
In January, one of the third grade classrooms was infested with mice, and that was the end of the emergency food packs.
When I was a kid...I remember the Big Chief tablets (or were they the pencils?) and the 8 crayons and the scissors that didn't work. And I remember that, at home, I drew and wrote on surplus paper from the emergency room where my dad worked (like bulk tablets of intake forms), with more than 8 crayons, and cut things apart with sharps-and-blunts, also surplus from the emergency room. Best scissors ever from a kid's point of view. In 4th grade, my dad just went ahead and sent me to school with them. Forget the safety scissors.
I won't miss the expense, but I will kind of miss the trip to Target to pick up all those new folders and spiral notebooks and brand new crayons. That's not what Sophia equates with the beginning of school, though, so it probably wouldn't have the same symbolic meaning. The trip to thrift stores for khaki, navy, and white clothing is her symbol of the end of summer.
Sophia's school has a once a year fee, since so many supplies are shared. Last year I was never asked to send in a new box of crayons or a three ring binder. She just went to school. They are the Queens of Scrounging over there, and do ask for donations of stuff that we have around. But it's never "You need 12 pack Crayolas and Big Chief Tablet #4 only and blunt tip rubber handled Fiskars Brand scissors age 4-8."
When I taught middle school, there might have been lists, but I don't remember anything being standardized. Some brought kleenex, I recall. When I taught in the city schools, there was no list. No supplies came from home because nobody had any money. Of course, the school had no money for supplies either and so this was indeed a challenge. And the year at the private west county school, of course, had everything included in the astronomical price tag.
But it was the year I taught at a south side all-white Catholic school that had the list. I inherited the first grade list from the previous teacher. I had no choice in the matter. Every student had six folders, in each rainbow color, that sat useless at the bottom of their cubby-hole desks all year. Every student had a stenographer's notebook, for reasons I never understood. The same crayons, the same writing tablet, the 15,000 boxes of kleenex and paper towel rolls I had to figure out how to store. And most mystifying: emergency food packs. Just in case there was an earthquake or tornado and we were trapped in the (3rd floor) classroom for a week. Everyone brought a rubbermaid box, bigger than a shoe box, with "non-perishable" food and bottled water. For me to store somewhere. And have kids sneak food from all year--because parents' ideas of emergency food was not the same as mine. Packages of M&Ms and fruit roll ups could, I suppose, technically keep you alive, but I didn't need 24 boxes of junk in my cloakroom.
In January, one of the third grade classrooms was infested with mice, and that was the end of the emergency food packs.
When I was a kid...I remember the Big Chief tablets (or were they the pencils?) and the 8 crayons and the scissors that didn't work. And I remember that, at home, I drew and wrote on surplus paper from the emergency room where my dad worked (like bulk tablets of intake forms), with more than 8 crayons, and cut things apart with sharps-and-blunts, also surplus from the emergency room. Best scissors ever from a kid's point of view. In 4th grade, my dad just went ahead and sent me to school with them. Forget the safety scissors.
I won't miss the expense, but I will kind of miss the trip to Target to pick up all those new folders and spiral notebooks and brand new crayons. That's not what Sophia equates with the beginning of school, though, so it probably wouldn't have the same symbolic meaning. The trip to thrift stores for khaki, navy, and white clothing is her symbol of the end of summer.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Summer food
Last night, we made homemade pizza. Our CSA had pizza dough mix last week (yeast included). Used pesto from last year's batch, basil and parsley from the garden, tomatoes from the CSA and the garden, and fresh mozzarella. Served with the, as Ann puts it, stick-your-face-in salad of basil leaves, fresh tomatoes, and mozzarella.
I had blueberries and the leftover salad for lunch.
With a strawberry soda.
Tonight's menu is an eggplant and fresh pasta dish from the St. Ambrose "Hill" cookbook. Tuesday is pinto beans and hot peppers from the garden, cooked in salsa and served with sour cream and tortilla chips. Wednesday is a mystery because the CSA gets here then. But I think we might have those Hinkebein pork steaks and the sweet corn. With more tomato-basil-mozzarella. Perhaps with feta instead.
For the next two weeks, it is my favorite time to eat. Not counting Thanksgiving leftovers of turkey, gravy, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie. August's garden bounty reminds me each year that, no, summer is not just one long punishment.
I had blueberries and the leftover salad for lunch.
With a strawberry soda.
Tonight's menu is an eggplant and fresh pasta dish from the St. Ambrose "Hill" cookbook. Tuesday is pinto beans and hot peppers from the garden, cooked in salsa and served with sour cream and tortilla chips. Wednesday is a mystery because the CSA gets here then. But I think we might have those Hinkebein pork steaks and the sweet corn. With more tomato-basil-mozzarella. Perhaps with feta instead.
For the next two weeks, it is my favorite time to eat. Not counting Thanksgiving leftovers of turkey, gravy, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie. August's garden bounty reminds me each year that, no, summer is not just one long punishment.
Feis Report
Saturday was Sophia's first feis. A feis (fesh) is an Irish dance competition. This one is run by her school, Clarkson, and happens out in Westport. That was the one huge drawback, actually. If it had been downtown, it would have been a much easier day. Overall, though, it was wonderful.
Sophia hadn't had much practice time this past week due to her cousin being in town. So I was nervous for her. I just didn't want her to cry. Really. I was worried that we were doing this too soon, that we were pushing her to compete at a time when she wasn't ready. But she wasn't nervous at all. "Mom, it's just like a show." And shows don't bother her a bit. So I did her hair (which involves a multitude of foam spike curlers all over her head, making her look a little like a stegosaurus). Most girls move to wigs pretty quickly, but my view of most of the wigs is that they look kind of creepy. If she sticks with it, we'll probably go that way eventually, but I think the little girls look better with natural hair. Natural. Meaning curled to within an inch of its life, tiny corkscrews all over her head. And the headband. I wish her school would move to a less painful headband. There's got to be a better way.
Anyway, so she went to bed Friday night and I sat up like a zombie. Got very little sleep. Woke her up at 6:00 to take out her hair, get her dressed and styled and fed, and out the door by 7:15 to drive to Westport. Next year we will get reservations and stay at the hotel and make it some sort of mini-vacation instead.
I'm always really nervous around other Irish dance moms. I think this is where my shyness comes out. I'm new, I'm clueless, and I just want enough protective coloration to fade into the background. But everyone was so dang nice. Mike talked to a mom from Little Rock and compared and contrasted uniforms. I talked with a woman from our school who lives 10 blocks from me and gave me the best advice: take it slow. And I met someone who reads my blog! Her sister found me at St. Pat's Day when I posted pictures from the parade and aftermath. That has never happened to me, meeting someone in person whom I already did not know (and who didn't find me via Annie's blog). So that was pretty cool!
Sophia was dancing in the "My First Feis" category. We watched the group dances for about an hour and then the under 5's were up. That's when I saw that this wasn't going to be as terrifying as I thought. One of our older girls stood behind the competitors and counted to get them started. It was, well, like it should be your first time in front of judges and a hotel ballroom full of spectators. Under 5s, then the Under 6s. Then Sophia in the Under 7s (it's based on your age on January 1 of that year). Jig. She danced alone--there were 7 competitors--and although she looked terrified and clueless, she managed to do it. I was so proud of her. After the jig, it was only about 5 minutes and then the reel, which she is far weaker in than the jig. I told her not to worry, to do what she could. She was in the first pair to dance, and she held her own. The judge, though, was making encouraging head and hand movements towards her--I could tell she'd forgotten a step, and didn't know what to do. But this was all ok. Because in that same group (of 8 girls this time), two girls burst into tears and refused to compete at all. Sophia did fine. She came off the stage and we gathered up our things. It was 10:00 and we were done!
We went down to the results room and found her place--4th in both categories, which was a relief for me, and a pleasant surprise for both of us, I think. The same three girls took first, second, and third in both dances. All three from different schools. Sophia held her own with her schoolmates.
We went to lunch with my mom, Bevin, Ashley, and Kennedy. Then I went back to work in the results room, which was pretty miserable. Not the work--the girls. They all fit into one of these categories:
a) silent disappointment, leaving without speaking
b) goofy beauty pageant style shrieking and hopping around (no matter what place)
c) and the most bewildering: looking up at the board, collecting their 5 medals, and then bursting into tears when they see they scored in 2nd place for their hornpipe or something like that. It's the only one she hasn't gotten 1st in yet.
I got to the point that I preferred the girls in the a) category.
We went back in the evening for the ceili (kaylee). That was a good choice--it's like a wedding reception with no bridal party. Lots of Irish music and teaching everyone to dance group dances. Sophia and Maeve had a great time. I did knitting and thought about how good it would be to be in bed. We stayed about an hour and a half, and the woman counting out dances said "one more dance for the little ones." She read my mind. Both girls fell asleep on the way home and I slept 12 hours.
Whew!
Sophia hadn't had much practice time this past week due to her cousin being in town. So I was nervous for her. I just didn't want her to cry. Really. I was worried that we were doing this too soon, that we were pushing her to compete at a time when she wasn't ready. But she wasn't nervous at all. "Mom, it's just like a show." And shows don't bother her a bit. So I did her hair (which involves a multitude of foam spike curlers all over her head, making her look a little like a stegosaurus). Most girls move to wigs pretty quickly, but my view of most of the wigs is that they look kind of creepy. If she sticks with it, we'll probably go that way eventually, but I think the little girls look better with natural hair. Natural. Meaning curled to within an inch of its life, tiny corkscrews all over her head. And the headband. I wish her school would move to a less painful headband. There's got to be a better way.
Anyway, so she went to bed Friday night and I sat up like a zombie. Got very little sleep. Woke her up at 6:00 to take out her hair, get her dressed and styled and fed, and out the door by 7:15 to drive to Westport. Next year we will get reservations and stay at the hotel and make it some sort of mini-vacation instead.
I'm always really nervous around other Irish dance moms. I think this is where my shyness comes out. I'm new, I'm clueless, and I just want enough protective coloration to fade into the background. But everyone was so dang nice. Mike talked to a mom from Little Rock and compared and contrasted uniforms. I talked with a woman from our school who lives 10 blocks from me and gave me the best advice: take it slow. And I met someone who reads my blog! Her sister found me at St. Pat's Day when I posted pictures from the parade and aftermath. That has never happened to me, meeting someone in person whom I already did not know (and who didn't find me via Annie's blog). So that was pretty cool!
Sophia was dancing in the "My First Feis" category. We watched the group dances for about an hour and then the under 5's were up. That's when I saw that this wasn't going to be as terrifying as I thought. One of our older girls stood behind the competitors and counted to get them started. It was, well, like it should be your first time in front of judges and a hotel ballroom full of spectators. Under 5s, then the Under 6s. Then Sophia in the Under 7s (it's based on your age on January 1 of that year). Jig. She danced alone--there were 7 competitors--and although she looked terrified and clueless, she managed to do it. I was so proud of her. After the jig, it was only about 5 minutes and then the reel, which she is far weaker in than the jig. I told her not to worry, to do what she could. She was in the first pair to dance, and she held her own. The judge, though, was making encouraging head and hand movements towards her--I could tell she'd forgotten a step, and didn't know what to do. But this was all ok. Because in that same group (of 8 girls this time), two girls burst into tears and refused to compete at all. Sophia did fine. She came off the stage and we gathered up our things. It was 10:00 and we were done!
We went down to the results room and found her place--4th in both categories, which was a relief for me, and a pleasant surprise for both of us, I think. The same three girls took first, second, and third in both dances. All three from different schools. Sophia held her own with her schoolmates.
We went to lunch with my mom, Bevin, Ashley, and Kennedy. Then I went back to work in the results room, which was pretty miserable. Not the work--the girls. They all fit into one of these categories:
a) silent disappointment, leaving without speaking
b) goofy beauty pageant style shrieking and hopping around (no matter what place)
c) and the most bewildering: looking up at the board, collecting their 5 medals, and then bursting into tears when they see they scored in 2nd place for their hornpipe or something like that. It's the only one she hasn't gotten 1st in yet.
I got to the point that I preferred the girls in the a) category.
We went back in the evening for the ceili (kaylee). That was a good choice--it's like a wedding reception with no bridal party. Lots of Irish music and teaching everyone to dance group dances. Sophia and Maeve had a great time. I did knitting and thought about how good it would be to be in bed. We stayed about an hour and a half, and the woman counting out dances said "one more dance for the little ones." She read my mind. Both girls fell asleep on the way home and I slept 12 hours.
Whew!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Photo Friday: Awful
This was the beginning of the end for the qat dealers we were trying to either get arrested or get evicted. The man we called Mohammad Subeda (not his name, just based on what was written on his other car) was finally getting his cab towed for unpaid tickets and being parked too long/abandoned in one spot. The other pictures I have are far more awful, but I do try to keep this at least a little bit family friendly. At least the visuals. So this is just a hearkening back to an awful time for our block.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Four for Thursday via Clearview
Four things that get under my skin? Only four?
Rude Adults: We were at the City Museum today, in one of the biggest crowds I've ever seen there. The only people who were rude were adults. Usually with kids in tow.
People Who Talk in the Theater: Just like the Shepherd says on Firefly. They're going to a special hell.
One-Up Games: People who barely wait until you are finished telling a story so that they can tell a better one. Especially when what they then say is a total fabrication.
Flicking Cigarette Butts: They aren't biodegradable, people, unless you've rolled your own. Why is it absolutely always ok to flick burning pieces of filter out the window of a car, onto the sidewalk, onto the parking lot?
Just off the top of my head. But I'm grumpy today.
Rude Adults: We were at the City Museum today, in one of the biggest crowds I've ever seen there. The only people who were rude were adults. Usually with kids in tow.
People Who Talk in the Theater: Just like the Shepherd says on Firefly. They're going to a special hell.
One-Up Games: People who barely wait until you are finished telling a story so that they can tell a better one. Especially when what they then say is a total fabrication.
Flicking Cigarette Butts: They aren't biodegradable, people, unless you've rolled your own. Why is it absolutely always ok to flick burning pieces of filter out the window of a car, onto the sidewalk, onto the parking lot?
Just off the top of my head. But I'm grumpy today.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Yup. The Secret's Out
Well, I let it slip over on alphabridge so I guess it's time to fess up. I'm pregnant. I'm due January 26th. I had an ultrasound today to confirm that yes, it's only one baby, and everything seems just fine. I'm in love with my new OB, I'm dragging myself through the last bits of morning sickness (which, this time, was all day, all night sickness), and I broke down and bought a pair of maternity shorts this week.
So here we are, a little bit at the beginning. A little more later on.
So here we are, a little bit at the beginning. A little more later on.
Rest in Peace, Chuy Arzola's
Snow day. January 2002. Mike takes the day off work, and we head to the Botanical Gardens. It is our habit to go to the Botanical Gardens on a good snow day when it happens. Some years it passes us by, but when we go, we have the gardens to ourselves, the quiet solitude of all that beautiful space clothed in snow. On the way, we pick up my sisters, because duBourg is closed, too. Push the stroller around the uncleared paths. Take pictures of Sophia looking not at all amused by this.
We work up an appetite out there in the cold, marching through the snow. We go over to Dogtown, to Chuy Arzola's Mexican Restaurant. We get an order of queso and one of guacamole. I get the Monterey, what I always get, Mike gets the fajitas. My sisters each get the black bean burrito. We are almost alone in the place. We spend a long time lingering over the iced tea and last bits of queso.
Chuy Arzola's is the best Tex-Mex restaurant in St. Louis. I know "Tex-Mex" is not necessarily something to be proud of in the culinary world. I have been in many, many conversations where the topic of Mexican food comes up and I get to hear, "well, this is a REAL Mexican restaurant. It's not the fake Tex-Mex kind of stuff."
But I LIKE the fake Tex-Mex kind of stuff. And as a Houston transplant, finding Chuy's was like coming home. When my parents moved up here, I was quick to take them there. They loved it too. It's where we go after graduations, when people come into town, when we're looking for, well, some place to get comfort food.
Two weeks ago, we headed over to Chuy's. It was hot, I didn't want to heat the kitchen, it'd been a long time since we'd been out. I stood in front of the closed sign, stunned. Closed. Not for vacation, not for now. For good. We drove on in stunned silence. The owners blamed the US-40 shutdown--their business dropped 40% when it shut down. Wow.
On the way home after finding a far inferior place to eat, I thought about stability. Just a little bit. I have lived here long enough that good things about this place have fallen by the wayside while I've remained. I'm not just talking about cheese enchiladas. Things change. And it's not until I lived here, consciously, that I realized how much they change. I guess for so long I was the one who changed--I moved from here to there so often that I never had a chance to notice other changes. Parishioners and neighbors who drift away or move or die. Places that close or burn down. Lights that have their timing change to frustrate me when I'm trying to get onto I-44 ("That never used to be that way!" I said to Mike last week). Friends that move into places of prominence and others who drift to the background. Schools, politicians, landscapes, issues, parishes, and so on forever. It's like I've been standing still now for 10 years here on Halliday and I finally can see something moving around me. Something to ruminate on in a quiet moment sometime.
But my immediate concern is queso.
We work up an appetite out there in the cold, marching through the snow. We go over to Dogtown, to Chuy Arzola's Mexican Restaurant. We get an order of queso and one of guacamole. I get the Monterey, what I always get, Mike gets the fajitas. My sisters each get the black bean burrito. We are almost alone in the place. We spend a long time lingering over the iced tea and last bits of queso.
Chuy Arzola's is the best Tex-Mex restaurant in St. Louis. I know "Tex-Mex" is not necessarily something to be proud of in the culinary world. I have been in many, many conversations where the topic of Mexican food comes up and I get to hear, "well, this is a REAL Mexican restaurant. It's not the fake Tex-Mex kind of stuff."
But I LIKE the fake Tex-Mex kind of stuff. And as a Houston transplant, finding Chuy's was like coming home. When my parents moved up here, I was quick to take them there. They loved it too. It's where we go after graduations, when people come into town, when we're looking for, well, some place to get comfort food.
Two weeks ago, we headed over to Chuy's. It was hot, I didn't want to heat the kitchen, it'd been a long time since we'd been out. I stood in front of the closed sign, stunned. Closed. Not for vacation, not for now. For good. We drove on in stunned silence. The owners blamed the US-40 shutdown--their business dropped 40% when it shut down. Wow.
On the way home after finding a far inferior place to eat, I thought about stability. Just a little bit. I have lived here long enough that good things about this place have fallen by the wayside while I've remained. I'm not just talking about cheese enchiladas. Things change. And it's not until I lived here, consciously, that I realized how much they change. I guess for so long I was the one who changed--I moved from here to there so often that I never had a chance to notice other changes. Parishioners and neighbors who drift away or move or die. Places that close or burn down. Lights that have their timing change to frustrate me when I'm trying to get onto I-44 ("That never used to be that way!" I said to Mike last week). Friends that move into places of prominence and others who drift to the background. Schools, politicians, landscapes, issues, parishes, and so on forever. It's like I've been standing still now for 10 years here on Halliday and I finally can see something moving around me. Something to ruminate on in a quiet moment sometime.
But my immediate concern is queso.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
And here we are
We're all home. Got in Monday morning, about 3 hours late, but not so bad. We spent yesterday at my aunt Gracemarie's house swimming in her backyard pool out in Des Peres. Today we went to Six Flags. Out of my mind? Maybe, but Mike took the day off and it thunderstormed last night producing a beautiful cooler day today. I'm exhausted now, and the kids are overtired and wired. I need to get them into bed (at which point my niece will begin crying and wind up over at my mom's house, which is fine and expected when you are six). No pictures from today, but a few from yesterday.
Two girls watching out the train window at the Mississippi River and other scenery. Soundtrack: two guys, strangers, behind us, both named Dan. Black Dan is a retiree, interested in furniture restoration, who got very few words in edgewise. White Dan is a conspiracy theorist who writes books about 9/11 and global warming and oil production. White Dan talked all Sunday evening until 11:00, and then talked all Monday morning until we got to St. Louis. Amusing. But strange. I felt sorry for Black Dan, who made a lot of awkward trapped "uh-huh" noises. The girls didn't notice them at all. They just entertained me.
At my aunt's pool.
And here, they are taking pool water in little squirt bottles and taking it over to Gracemarie's fountain to "wash" it off. It was an interesting project.
And it's been an interesting few days. I don't think I'm as nice as her mom. I think this is a great shock. Ah well. It isn't a great shock to anyone else who knows me.
Right now, they are in their room, Sophia sobbing because Kennedy wants to go stay at my mom's house. Sophia was sobbing to me, and I told her she needed to express her wishes directly to the source. Thursday night, they're all going to my mom's house for the night. But Sophia was thinking it was going to be a week of slumber parties, and it's turning out to be a week of day trips. But it's a first step.
Two girls watching out the train window at the Mississippi River and other scenery. Soundtrack: two guys, strangers, behind us, both named Dan. Black Dan is a retiree, interested in furniture restoration, who got very few words in edgewise. White Dan is a conspiracy theorist who writes books about 9/11 and global warming and oil production. White Dan talked all Sunday evening until 11:00, and then talked all Monday morning until we got to St. Louis. Amusing. But strange. I felt sorry for Black Dan, who made a lot of awkward trapped "uh-huh" noises. The girls didn't notice them at all. They just entertained me.
At my aunt's pool.
And here, they are taking pool water in little squirt bottles and taking it over to Gracemarie's fountain to "wash" it off. It was an interesting project.
And it's been an interesting few days. I don't think I'm as nice as her mom. I think this is a great shock. Ah well. It isn't a great shock to anyone else who knows me.
Right now, they are in their room, Sophia sobbing because Kennedy wants to go stay at my mom's house. Sophia was sobbing to me, and I told her she needed to express her wishes directly to the source. Thursday night, they're all going to my mom's house for the night. But Sophia was thinking it was going to be a week of slumber parties, and it's turning out to be a week of day trips. But it's a first step.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Choo choo
Sophia and I are leaving tonight--Mike and Maeve are staying here while the two of us go down to get my niece. She lives outside of Houston, and we're taking the train to Mineola. It's overnight, and we'll spend the day in Lovely Mineola, returning tomorrow night on the northbound Texas Eagle with niece in tow. We could have gone all the way into Dallas, but it was only a 3 hour layover and Amtrak is not known for being on time outside the eastern seaboard. I didn't want to miss the return train while still on the outbound train. This gives us, potentially, if both trains are miraculously on time, 7 hours to spin our wheels in Mineola. But I think we'll be ok.
Next week's to-do list is vast: City Museum, Six Flags, probably the zoo, potentially my aunt's house for swimming. And then, of course, Sophia's hair gets down Friday night for the FEIS on Saturday. I'm more nervous than she is. Strictly according to cliche.
Next week's to-do list is vast: City Museum, Six Flags, probably the zoo, potentially my aunt's house for swimming. And then, of course, Sophia's hair gets down Friday night for the FEIS on Saturday. I'm more nervous than she is. Strictly according to cliche.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
My favorite picture from yesterday at the zoo
Maeve and I went to the zoo yesterday. Dropped Sophia off and went around and parked on the street (like a good south sider, not going to pay for parking in the lot (and, like a bad south sider, let my zoo membership lapse again--we have belonged about half the time since Sophia was born)). Got there early enough to go to the children's zoo for free (again with the cheap date). But then we did ride the carousel and train, so I wasn't a total stingy mom. I remember going there as a kid, I think with my grandmother, and being so jealous about the train. I didn't care how many lemurs and poisonous snakes I got to see for free. I wanted to ride the train.
Non-St. Louisans: our zoo is free. It is a really good zoo. Conscientious, clean, historic, and so on. It's not as overwhelmingly large as San Diego, and I'm sure there are other zoos (National, for instance?) that have more species or more space or whatever. But ours is FREE. I remember going to Brookfield as a kid and being haunted by the way they housed their animals. The Houston Zoo seems skimpy and slapped together. When we visit other cities, we don't even bother anymore to try their zoos. We will go to natural history museums and art museums and children's anything. But the zoo, I'm afraid, is just too good at home. It would be like living in Hawaii and then going to the "beach" when you visit Houston. Ya just don't waste your time.
Anyway, Maeve was so happy about the train, she was vibrating while we waited for it to leave. She had a good day, even with the blister on her foot (at a gift shop, the woman in charge gave me bandaids for free (again with the free) and fixed that). And here we are as the train pulled out of one of the 4 stations.
Non-St. Louisans: our zoo is free. It is a really good zoo. Conscientious, clean, historic, and so on. It's not as overwhelmingly large as San Diego, and I'm sure there are other zoos (National, for instance?) that have more species or more space or whatever. But ours is FREE. I remember going to Brookfield as a kid and being haunted by the way they housed their animals. The Houston Zoo seems skimpy and slapped together. When we visit other cities, we don't even bother anymore to try their zoos. We will go to natural history museums and art museums and children's anything. But the zoo, I'm afraid, is just too good at home. It would be like living in Hawaii and then going to the "beach" when you visit Houston. Ya just don't waste your time.
Anyway, Maeve was so happy about the train, she was vibrating while we waited for it to leave. She had a good day, even with the blister on her foot (at a gift shop, the woman in charge gave me bandaids for free (again with the free) and fixed that). And here we are as the train pulled out of one of the 4 stations.
Saturday's Project
I hate my backyard. Really. I did when we first bought the house, and 10 years later, lo, I still hate it. I hate cutting grass, I hate nonfunctional gardening (weeding beds full of hostas and monkey grass, fighting off virginia creeper, etc). I hate cleaning up dog poop. I hate tripping over kid toys. Morning glory, pokeweed, wild strawberry, violets. I dread them. In the spring I am contact dermatitis central, in the summer I overheat, and in the fall I just pray the leaves will kill everything.
Note: this does not apply to garlic, tomatoes, peppers, basil, and so forth. I love being able to show something for my effort. And I love bulbs. My stargazer lilies are blooming right now in front and I'm so happy with them. Actually, my side bed in the front yard, which my grandmother planted for me, is low maintenance and nice except that it gets overgrown with volunteer sweetgums. Once a summer I try to cut them down. But otherwise, it's a nice spot. Unfortunately, the larger part of my yard in front is not nice, and the backyard is a wild and crazy jungle.
Part of what I don't like is our back porch. It is just big enough to put a table and 4 chairs out there, with the grill. But that is it. And you walk down rickety, half-rotted steps to the concrete walk. The kids' pool is to your right, and it becomes a mulchy mess after two or three out and in and out and in routines. The swingset just to the north of the pool is wonderful, a free godsend from Ann, less grass to mow, a kid magnet. Beyond that, though, there be dragons. And the left hand side of the concrete walk is miserable. It's all under a magnolia tree, which I love, shaded, nice, but impossible to utilize well. At least for me.
This has all changed. This past Saturday, it all changed. I've been demanding a deck for a long time. We have a deck--the back porch is technically that. And I didn't want that torn down--I wanted it added on to. Except not connected. What I wanted was a free floating platform in the backyard, not attached to the house, just sensibly built, high enough to allow water drainage, but low enough to not be hazardous. Wood. Up off the mulch. Right next to the kids' pool so they could get in and out, get a snack or drink, and get back in without mulching up everything. Big enough to put my aunt Gracemarie's wrought iron table on and sit some chairs around it so that it didn't continue to sink into the mud.
My father came over Saturday and he and Mike built me one. It is a little higher than I thought, but it's a good height. They ripped off the old nasty steps, which were rotting, and built two steps down onto the platform, although floating (attached to the platform but not the old porch, so that the old porch doesn't continue the same rot). Two steps down to the sidewalk. It is so overbuilt, we could probably park a car on it. And it's right up next to the pool, which means two things: easy and clean for kids, but also the pool is easier to get into...which means more monitoring on non-pool backyard times. But that's ok, too. Sophia knows better than to get in the pool without my knowledge (really, she's a total rule follower), and she and most of her friends are also fond of tattling on Maeve. So I think we'll be ok. Trust me, I am, as my neighbor Mary calls it, Ms. Safety Patrol when it comes to water. Ok, enough of that. Here it is Saturday afternoon. One day. Done:
The table's going on the opposite side of the pool, with the one long edge near the side of the platform so that nobody scoots a chair out and falls into the hostas. The magnolia tree is now a beautiful source of shade for the table instead of a cursed nuisance while I try to grow anything underneath it. The hostas are happy where I've transplanted them, the kids didn't lose any play area, and they'll have clean feet next time they get in the pool.
While we were out there, we moved the old grill out to the bulk trash pick up spot by the parking pad. It was totally rusted out on the bottom. Ten long years on the back porch. We cleaned out a bunch of stuff, actually. Like two wheelbarrows full of virginia creeper that was clinging to the old deck, creating a atmosphere of fear and distrust (or, rather, mold and moss underneath its leaves). I need to wash the old deck with my trusted friend Joy soap and water. I need to clean up a bunch of stuff, actually, perhaps this evening, but for now, as I look out my kitchen window, the pool is filling up, the violets and english plantain are keeping the "grass" low, and the place looks almost as if we'd planned it this way. I'm pleased.
Note: this does not apply to garlic, tomatoes, peppers, basil, and so forth. I love being able to show something for my effort. And I love bulbs. My stargazer lilies are blooming right now in front and I'm so happy with them. Actually, my side bed in the front yard, which my grandmother planted for me, is low maintenance and nice except that it gets overgrown with volunteer sweetgums. Once a summer I try to cut them down. But otherwise, it's a nice spot. Unfortunately, the larger part of my yard in front is not nice, and the backyard is a wild and crazy jungle.
Part of what I don't like is our back porch. It is just big enough to put a table and 4 chairs out there, with the grill. But that is it. And you walk down rickety, half-rotted steps to the concrete walk. The kids' pool is to your right, and it becomes a mulchy mess after two or three out and in and out and in routines. The swingset just to the north of the pool is wonderful, a free godsend from Ann, less grass to mow, a kid magnet. Beyond that, though, there be dragons. And the left hand side of the concrete walk is miserable. It's all under a magnolia tree, which I love, shaded, nice, but impossible to utilize well. At least for me.
This has all changed. This past Saturday, it all changed. I've been demanding a deck for a long time. We have a deck--the back porch is technically that. And I didn't want that torn down--I wanted it added on to. Except not connected. What I wanted was a free floating platform in the backyard, not attached to the house, just sensibly built, high enough to allow water drainage, but low enough to not be hazardous. Wood. Up off the mulch. Right next to the kids' pool so they could get in and out, get a snack or drink, and get back in without mulching up everything. Big enough to put my aunt Gracemarie's wrought iron table on and sit some chairs around it so that it didn't continue to sink into the mud.
My father came over Saturday and he and Mike built me one. It is a little higher than I thought, but it's a good height. They ripped off the old nasty steps, which were rotting, and built two steps down onto the platform, although floating (attached to the platform but not the old porch, so that the old porch doesn't continue the same rot). Two steps down to the sidewalk. It is so overbuilt, we could probably park a car on it. And it's right up next to the pool, which means two things: easy and clean for kids, but also the pool is easier to get into...which means more monitoring on non-pool backyard times. But that's ok, too. Sophia knows better than to get in the pool without my knowledge (really, she's a total rule follower), and she and most of her friends are also fond of tattling on Maeve. So I think we'll be ok. Trust me, I am, as my neighbor Mary calls it, Ms. Safety Patrol when it comes to water. Ok, enough of that. Here it is Saturday afternoon. One day. Done:
The table's going on the opposite side of the pool, with the one long edge near the side of the platform so that nobody scoots a chair out and falls into the hostas. The magnolia tree is now a beautiful source of shade for the table instead of a cursed nuisance while I try to grow anything underneath it. The hostas are happy where I've transplanted them, the kids didn't lose any play area, and they'll have clean feet next time they get in the pool.
While we were out there, we moved the old grill out to the bulk trash pick up spot by the parking pad. It was totally rusted out on the bottom. Ten long years on the back porch. We cleaned out a bunch of stuff, actually. Like two wheelbarrows full of virginia creeper that was clinging to the old deck, creating a atmosphere of fear and distrust (or, rather, mold and moss underneath its leaves). I need to wash the old deck with my trusted friend Joy soap and water. I need to clean up a bunch of stuff, actually, perhaps this evening, but for now, as I look out my kitchen window, the pool is filling up, the violets and english plantain are keeping the "grass" low, and the place looks almost as if we'd planned it this way. I'm pleased.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Fair Shares and Other Food
Our latest Fair Shares--we have had others since my last post on this, obviously, and there are pictures, but this is a decent representation of what we got last week. Zucchini, yellow squash, cucumbers, blueberries, gouda, eggs, bratwurst, buns, chives, mushrooms, eggplant, Chinese cabbage, turnips, and beets. I am happy to say that besides a cucumber, a large zucchini, the beets, and some eggs, we finished off everything else on this list as of tonight (we get more tomorrow). I'm shredding the beets tomorrow for a slaw. The eggs get eaten as we need them. Oh, I do have some Chinese cabbage left. Not a big fan. But that's all part of the bargain.
And this? This is the Halliday Bounty of Snacks. Down the street, my neighbor Trisha has hooked us up with more organic snacks than I ever could have dreamed up. Insane amounts of kids cereal and pita chips and energy/granola bars. She knows someone who knows someone who distributes organic carbs, essentially, before they are released to market. So we had leaping lemurs cereal one week, which I could have eaten by the box, now it's a veritable ton of fruit n nut bars. Between Fair Shares, this, and Oberweis, I haven't gone shopping at Schnucks in a long time. No, that's a lie. I went Saturday, for lunchmeat and a new loaf of bread. And caramel ice cream for Sophia's birthday party. But if it hadn't been party and a play-platform building day, we would have lasted a lot longer.
And our now completely free garlic harvest. We bought garlic shoots from a Missouri farm (it's an Osage heirloom garlic, native to Missouri) 5 autumns ago. The next year we had tiny garlic bulbs and lots of flowers/seedpods. Saved most of the garlic cloves and all the seeds. That fall, we planted both. The seeds gave us shoots with small bulbs, the cloves gave us large bulbs. We used the large bulbs, saved the seeds and small cloves. And so it goes. I forgot to plant this November, but had one warm day in January where I got all the cloves and seeds in the ground. It's to the point that this is my easiest, most bountiful, most satisfying crop. I get a ton of garlic each summer, I save the seeds in a jar till the first frost, and the smallest cloves turn into next summer's big garlic. I wish I could get to this with my tomatoes and peppers. But starting seeds in January and nursing them through the late winter in the hopes that maybe they'll produce something in August...I'm not there yet. But I'm there for the garlic. Plus, as an added bonus, it grows ANYWHERE in my yard. Partial shade. Full sun. Flaunting its garlic goodness in front of all the squirrels, who avoid it like the plague.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Gas Prices Too High? Try This
According to Nancy's Baby Names, a blog I read on occasion, a man in Florida sold the rights to name his unborn son for a $100 gas card.
Considering my minivan takes about $80 to fill up, that would essentially give me 3 weeks of travel (I try very hard not to drive much). For a lifetime of living with a son named Dixon Willoughby. Two morning show hosts, whose last names are Dixon and Willoughby, had a contest. What would you do for a $100 gas card.
I'm just not crazy enough, I guess. I'd let them name a CAT for that. But not my kid. Ah well.
Considering my minivan takes about $80 to fill up, that would essentially give me 3 weeks of travel (I try very hard not to drive much). For a lifetime of living with a son named Dixon Willoughby. Two morning show hosts, whose last names are Dixon and Willoughby, had a contest. What would you do for a $100 gas card.
I'm just not crazy enough, I guess. I'd let them name a CAT for that. But not my kid. Ah well.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Ok, just one teeny little post
I am busy cleaning, although when you have an almost 7 year old who owes you 3 hours of work for goofing off at her last piano lesson, you tend to leave a few things for her to do when she gets home from the already-scheduled swim date at a friend's. I looked around the dining room and living room and thought, this is Sophia's job. So I came upstairs and the SIREN SONG OF THE COMPUTER sucked me in.
But I was glad it did--I had a happy feast day note from my pastor, very sweet, and an even more exciting email from my neighbor Elizabeth who writes over at From Bankrupt to Baby. She and her husband are busy bees getting ready to bring home a daughter from Korea. I live this vicariously through them, worrying when paperwork is late, waiting for forms to arrive with bureaucratic alphanumeric names, ogling over the picture they received (and thinking back to when I helped my great aunt Sarah clean out and organize her pictures, finding the picture of Hesouk, age 18 months, who became my second cousin Jane in 1974). They have all their ducks in a row and now it's the waiting game.
And today they got "the call" from Korea letting them know to come on down, next contestant, etc. They are leaving ASAP and before we know it, there'll be yet another little one on our lovely, child-filled block.
I can't wait to meet her.
But I was glad it did--I had a happy feast day note from my pastor, very sweet, and an even more exciting email from my neighbor Elizabeth who writes over at From Bankrupt to Baby. She and her husband are busy bees getting ready to bring home a daughter from Korea. I live this vicariously through them, worrying when paperwork is late, waiting for forms to arrive with bureaucratic alphanumeric names, ogling over the picture they received (and thinking back to when I helped my great aunt Sarah clean out and organize her pictures, finding the picture of Hesouk, age 18 months, who became my second cousin Jane in 1974). They have all their ducks in a row and now it's the waiting game.
And today they got "the call" from Korea letting them know to come on down, next contestant, etc. They are leaving ASAP and before we know it, there'll be yet another little one on our lovely, child-filled block.
I can't wait to meet her.
Ora et Labora
Happy St. Benedict's Day! My mother-in-law sent me an email this morning letting me know. But no time to blog today--there is a lot of work to be done today. Sophia's birthday slumber party is tomorrow. I went to bed last night late, with a head full of lists I had to accomplish today. It seems more auspicious now.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Coffee: It's a Good Thing
I like coffee. One time Ann mentioned that you pick your drug of choice by age 35. After that, you don't really stray. It's rare, according to this theory, for a 45 year old to decide one afternoon to start snorting cocaine.
Coffee is my drug. Not just caffeine. I don't drink red bull or mountain dew or even regular iced tea (I like herbal iced tea, though, usually caffeine free). I came to coffee late in life--by way of coffee ice cream, actually. My dad drinks coffee, but never made it at home. My mother likes the smell but not the taste. I was with her. Until I got to high school and realized if a family of six buys three half gallons of ice cream a month, and one of them is coffee by my request, it lasts the month. The strawberry or caramel swirl or whatever is gone in a moment, but I still have that option long after it's all gone. Until my sisters figured this trick out, it was great (and I still had the metabolism required to eat that much ice cream...). So it sneaked up on me. But just like my short trip into alcoholism when I was 22, once I got a hang of it, I went fast. Three years ago, in a 5 month span, I went from coffee ice cream to frozen coffee sweet over the top 4000 calorie things to iced coffee with milk and caramel syrup to (winter came) white chocolate mochas to coffee with sugar or milk, either was fine, milk preferred. I blame Ann, in some ways, because our Wednesday coffee mornings were at places with bottomless refill cups.
But then this spring, when everything seemed to crash down around me, before I realized, duh, it's my thyroid, I decided it was time to start giving up the coffee. Not entirely. Just really cut back. I did--and of course, I crashed even faster for a couple of weeks. I would have a single cup of coffee on Wednesday mornings, and through the week, not much at all. Hot coffee in the summer is a weird idea to me, anyway.
I am always reminded of my Aunt Paula telling the story of her (and my dad's) grandparents, Anna and Edward, sitting at their north side kitchen table in the middle of the summer, her grandfather in an undershirt and shorts and grandmother in a housedress, no fans on, the windows barely open, everyone sweating, and both of them smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee. Ugh.
This morning, I had a cup of coffee. Two, actually. And it didn't hit me how great everything was going until about a half hour ago. My house is clean, my kids are cooperative, the sink is polished. Laundry is folded and new laundry is washing. Trash went out, downstairs is vacuumed, the fridge is cleaned, and I even did some mending. Mending. It was while I was mending that it occurred to me that two cups of coffee, perhaps every two or three days, is just what I need. I just need to make sure it doesn't turn into 8 or 9 cups every day. Prudence.
Coffee is my drug. Not just caffeine. I don't drink red bull or mountain dew or even regular iced tea (I like herbal iced tea, though, usually caffeine free). I came to coffee late in life--by way of coffee ice cream, actually. My dad drinks coffee, but never made it at home. My mother likes the smell but not the taste. I was with her. Until I got to high school and realized if a family of six buys three half gallons of ice cream a month, and one of them is coffee by my request, it lasts the month. The strawberry or caramel swirl or whatever is gone in a moment, but I still have that option long after it's all gone. Until my sisters figured this trick out, it was great (and I still had the metabolism required to eat that much ice cream...). So it sneaked up on me. But just like my short trip into alcoholism when I was 22, once I got a hang of it, I went fast. Three years ago, in a 5 month span, I went from coffee ice cream to frozen coffee sweet over the top 4000 calorie things to iced coffee with milk and caramel syrup to (winter came) white chocolate mochas to coffee with sugar or milk, either was fine, milk preferred. I blame Ann, in some ways, because our Wednesday coffee mornings were at places with bottomless refill cups.
But then this spring, when everything seemed to crash down around me, before I realized, duh, it's my thyroid, I decided it was time to start giving up the coffee. Not entirely. Just really cut back. I did--and of course, I crashed even faster for a couple of weeks. I would have a single cup of coffee on Wednesday mornings, and through the week, not much at all. Hot coffee in the summer is a weird idea to me, anyway.
I am always reminded of my Aunt Paula telling the story of her (and my dad's) grandparents, Anna and Edward, sitting at their north side kitchen table in the middle of the summer, her grandfather in an undershirt and shorts and grandmother in a housedress, no fans on, the windows barely open, everyone sweating, and both of them smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee. Ugh.
This morning, I had a cup of coffee. Two, actually. And it didn't hit me how great everything was going until about a half hour ago. My house is clean, my kids are cooperative, the sink is polished. Laundry is folded and new laundry is washing. Trash went out, downstairs is vacuumed, the fridge is cleaned, and I even did some mending. Mending. It was while I was mending that it occurred to me that two cups of coffee, perhaps every two or three days, is just what I need. I just need to make sure it doesn't turn into 8 or 9 cups every day. Prudence.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Maeve's New Absolutely Favorite Thing
Maeve loves classic Sesame Street. Waste an afternoon on Youtube sometime. We do.
Matthew 7:1-6
"Do not judge, so that you may not be judged. For with the judgment you make you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get. Why do you see the speck in your neighbor's eye, but do not notice the log in your own eye? Or how can you say to your neighbor, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye' while the log is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your neighbor's eye." Mt 7:1-6
Umm, yeah. I think I'm done with the flame war regarding my views on conservative Catholics. You don't like the way I believe, or the way I view authority? Maybe if you ever had anything to say to me about any other topic, I would care. But it's not like you're Ann or Brent or my mother or Kate or one of my neighbors or friends or any of the folks who regularly comment here. If you're uncomfortable with what I have to say, maybe you should examine why that might be. I often examine the reasons I'm uncomfortable with things that conservative Catholics say. With things bishops say. With things the pope says. Sometimes, believe it or not, it even makes me change the way I think about this or that.
Do I have a problem with authority? Perhaps. I am congregational at heart caught in a hierarchical church. Am I leaving? No. I do not accept that authority is to be followed with blind, slave-like obedience. If you were regular readers here, you would perhaps have noted I'm a BENEDICTINE. I made a promise of obedience. Not to the level of vow, but I keep that promise. And obedience, (sigh), comes from a root word in Latin that means to listen. Obedience implies conversation. Obedience sometimes means saying no. And my promise of obedience is not made to an archbishop. It is made to a prioress. Who, for some crazy reason, doesn't think that dissent and argument within the Church is a bad thing.
Not only am I a Benedictine, but I've got a little Jesuit training under my belt. Not a lot--it's just a minor in theology under the education degree. But I did get a little exposure to the idea that God gave us intellect. Intuition. A sense of justice. I try to use mine.
Lastly, I'm pretty sure that nowhere in the Bible is it mentioned that I must believe in Pharaoh. The pope is not God. The pope is not the only person the Holy Spirit moves through. The pope is a man, a fallible man in bright red shoes, whose decisions, whether prayerful or arbitrary, are no more or less important than the prayerful or arbitrary decisions made 500 or 1000 years ago by former popes.
I believe that we are all, if we search at all, looking for our way to God. I think it's a Buddhist saying that goes, we're all on paths up the mountain to God, and we will all reach God, except for those who beat the bushes at the bottom of the mountain warning others that they're on the wrong path. Talk of the One Holy True Church is going to get us nowhere. Maybe talk of the Beatitudes will. Goodness gracious.
Umm, yeah. I think I'm done with the flame war regarding my views on conservative Catholics. You don't like the way I believe, or the way I view authority? Maybe if you ever had anything to say to me about any other topic, I would care. But it's not like you're Ann or Brent or my mother or Kate or one of my neighbors or friends or any of the folks who regularly comment here. If you're uncomfortable with what I have to say, maybe you should examine why that might be. I often examine the reasons I'm uncomfortable with things that conservative Catholics say. With things bishops say. With things the pope says. Sometimes, believe it or not, it even makes me change the way I think about this or that.
Do I have a problem with authority? Perhaps. I am congregational at heart caught in a hierarchical church. Am I leaving? No. I do not accept that authority is to be followed with blind, slave-like obedience. If you were regular readers here, you would perhaps have noted I'm a BENEDICTINE. I made a promise of obedience. Not to the level of vow, but I keep that promise. And obedience, (sigh), comes from a root word in Latin that means to listen. Obedience implies conversation. Obedience sometimes means saying no. And my promise of obedience is not made to an archbishop. It is made to a prioress. Who, for some crazy reason, doesn't think that dissent and argument within the Church is a bad thing.
Not only am I a Benedictine, but I've got a little Jesuit training under my belt. Not a lot--it's just a minor in theology under the education degree. But I did get a little exposure to the idea that God gave us intellect. Intuition. A sense of justice. I try to use mine.
Lastly, I'm pretty sure that nowhere in the Bible is it mentioned that I must believe in Pharaoh. The pope is not God. The pope is not the only person the Holy Spirit moves through. The pope is a man, a fallible man in bright red shoes, whose decisions, whether prayerful or arbitrary, are no more or less important than the prayerful or arbitrary decisions made 500 or 1000 years ago by former popes.
I believe that we are all, if we search at all, looking for our way to God. I think it's a Buddhist saying that goes, we're all on paths up the mountain to God, and we will all reach God, except for those who beat the bushes at the bottom of the mountain warning others that they're on the wrong path. Talk of the One Holy True Church is going to get us nowhere. Maybe talk of the Beatitudes will. Goodness gracious.
Eh. Scheduling.
So we're going to the Smoky Mountains this fall. During the "off season", meaning after school starts but before the leaves turn colors. Which means late September/early October. We've narrowed the choices of place to stay down to two lovely cabins near Townsend, TN. And I know my dates and who is going and all that jazz.
And then I noticed that the oblate weekend is the same weekend as the beginning of our trip. Now, instead of showing up on a Sunday afternoon, we could definitely show up on a Monday afternoon. Stay one more day, something like that. But I'm already envisioning the packing fiasco involved in coming home from Clyde and turning around and leaving the next morning.
Maybe I'll skip Clyde. But that's what I did in May. I would really rather go.
Maybe I'll go up Thursday to Clyde and leave Saturday afternoon instead.
Maybe I'll reserve the cabin a week later.
Maybe I'll just take a nice little nap and ignore this problem until later today. Yeah.
And then I noticed that the oblate weekend is the same weekend as the beginning of our trip. Now, instead of showing up on a Sunday afternoon, we could definitely show up on a Monday afternoon. Stay one more day, something like that. But I'm already envisioning the packing fiasco involved in coming home from Clyde and turning around and leaving the next morning.
Maybe I'll skip Clyde. But that's what I did in May. I would really rather go.
Maybe I'll go up Thursday to Clyde and leave Saturday afternoon instead.
Maybe I'll reserve the cabin a week later.
Maybe I'll just take a nice little nap and ignore this problem until later today. Yeah.
Weaving
I'm learning to weave. I inherited, sort of, a loom from a fellow parishioner. It's a big loom, probably a good 48 inches of weaving space, maybe more. The thing is big. It's a beautiful yellow maple, probably European, made by a defunct company called Ullman. I think later it became Ullman-Berga, and perhaps Ulltex. Whatever it is, I know there's no searchable information on it I can find on the internet. And I'm pretty decent at finding stuff on the internet. But a nice woman in upstate New York gave me some advice, and that led to a woman in Minnesota who collects instruction manuals on antique looms. She had some stuff for me. I couldn't believe it, but she did.
It's all put together, except for the heddles. A heddle is the part of the loom the warp (vertical threads) runs through in order to move them up or down to make weaving possible. Modern looms have metal heddles with a little eye in the center, like a gigantic needle's eye. You thread them with a sleying hook (slaying? sleighing?). But older looms have heddles made of string loops, also with an eye in the center. They do the same thing, but they get tangled. And when a loom hasn't been used in, say, 30 years, and the last person to use it clumped the heddles together in little bundles to get them out of the way, well, there's some work to be done. So I go up to the attic and separate heddles out. Thing is, there are 8 harnesses on this loom, and each of them is full of heddles. I last about 10 minutes and it makes me want to scream and I have to stop and go back downstairs and drink lemonade.
I'm taking a weaving class at Craft Alliance. They use jack looms. Mine is a counterbalance loom. Jack looms are pretty darned simple. Mine is not. We're doing weft-faced weaving, and I'm making something out of Donegal homespun that is pretty, but scratchy and chunky enough to be a rug. It is also only 16 inches wide. Who knows what this will be. But I now know how to warp a loom, which is completely non-intuitive process. While I was able to teach myself to knit from a book ("I learned Eeenglish! From a book!"), to quilt from a book and trial and error, there is no way on this earth that I could have taught myself to warp a loom from a book.
I am fast, too. With no mistakes. I grok this. This fits right into that category of postal carrier/codebreaker. Hands, eyes, feet, pattern, color, motion.
But we'll see if it transfers to the big loom.
It's all put together, except for the heddles. A heddle is the part of the loom the warp (vertical threads) runs through in order to move them up or down to make weaving possible. Modern looms have metal heddles with a little eye in the center, like a gigantic needle's eye. You thread them with a sleying hook (slaying? sleighing?). But older looms have heddles made of string loops, also with an eye in the center. They do the same thing, but they get tangled. And when a loom hasn't been used in, say, 30 years, and the last person to use it clumped the heddles together in little bundles to get them out of the way, well, there's some work to be done. So I go up to the attic and separate heddles out. Thing is, there are 8 harnesses on this loom, and each of them is full of heddles. I last about 10 minutes and it makes me want to scream and I have to stop and go back downstairs and drink lemonade.
I'm taking a weaving class at Craft Alliance. They use jack looms. Mine is a counterbalance loom. Jack looms are pretty darned simple. Mine is not. We're doing weft-faced weaving, and I'm making something out of Donegal homespun that is pretty, but scratchy and chunky enough to be a rug. It is also only 16 inches wide. Who knows what this will be. But I now know how to warp a loom, which is completely non-intuitive process. While I was able to teach myself to knit from a book ("I learned Eeenglish! From a book!"), to quilt from a book and trial and error, there is no way on this earth that I could have taught myself to warp a loom from a book.
I am fast, too. With no mistakes. I grok this. This fits right into that category of postal carrier/codebreaker. Hands, eyes, feet, pattern, color, motion.
But we'll see if it transfers to the big loom.
Monday, July 07, 2008
I probably shouldn't complain
Here's this weeks' weather for St. Louis. Yeah, today is hot, but then it eases up a bit. The normal high is 89--which will fit right where it belongs the rest of the week. And, to really put it in perspective, I could live in Big Sur:
Or in Moab, Utah:
Or in the Endless Houston Summer:
Now it is Summer
Last night it was cool in our room all night. This is the first time all summer, except for when it was cool enough outside to open the windows and put the fans on instead--which happened quite a bit thus far this season, actually. But last night, it only got down into the upper 70s. Which meant the air conditioner kicked on more than once in the 8 hours I was asleep. It was lovely not to be hot.
And then this morning, the radio told me high of 97. Now it is summer. July 7 and it is finally here. I'm going to clean out the leaves from the pool and refill it. Water the tomatoes and hang laundry out to dry.
Everything seems somehow shifted. Winter didn't start on time, and lasted forever. Spring wasn't skipped, for a change, but lasted well into June. It's hard to get used to. I suppose this means it will still be hot for my birthday. Ah well.
And then this morning, the radio told me high of 97. Now it is summer. July 7 and it is finally here. I'm going to clean out the leaves from the pool and refill it. Water the tomatoes and hang laundry out to dry.
Everything seems somehow shifted. Winter didn't start on time, and lasted forever. Spring wasn't skipped, for a change, but lasted well into June. It's hard to get used to. I suppose this means it will still be hot for my birthday. Ah well.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Storybook Love - One Last Anniversary Post
Come my love, I'll tell you a tale
Of a boy and girl, and their love story
We got married July 6, 1996. Wedding plans culminated in a day of no worries, of sun, of happiness. We were married in the beautiful St. Cecilia's Catholic Church, where my grandparents had been married; officiated by Fr. Jerry Keaty, who had given me my first communion, baptized my two sisters, wed my cousin and his girlfriend, gone on vacation with our extended family. Intertwined. Steeped in nostalgia and tradition and connection, which is saying something, coming from a girl with no tradition or connection to much of anything. We took pictures in Tower Grove Park, with medieval weaponry (many of our friends are dorks, I mean members of the SCA). Fun, inventive, different. Our reception was at a now-defunct hall, very St. Louis standard, with the amusingly stereotypical mostaciolli (pronounced, incorrectly, "muskacholly"). Open bar, great speech, good time.
This was our first dance. Mike's idea--I'd balked at the idea at first--it seemed too typical. Too traditional, or stereotypical, or even a bit dorky. But then I reflected and realized that was who we were. We were all that in a nutshell. So in front of family and friends and amused onlookers, we scooted around the tile dance floor. My love may be like a storybook story, but it's as real as the feelings I feel.
Of a boy and girl, and their love story
We got married July 6, 1996. Wedding plans culminated in a day of no worries, of sun, of happiness. We were married in the beautiful St. Cecilia's Catholic Church, where my grandparents had been married; officiated by Fr. Jerry Keaty, who had given me my first communion, baptized my two sisters, wed my cousin and his girlfriend, gone on vacation with our extended family. Intertwined. Steeped in nostalgia and tradition and connection, which is saying something, coming from a girl with no tradition or connection to much of anything. We took pictures in Tower Grove Park, with medieval weaponry (many of our friends are dorks, I mean members of the SCA). Fun, inventive, different. Our reception was at a now-defunct hall, very St. Louis standard, with the amusingly stereotypical mostaciolli (pronounced, incorrectly, "muskacholly"). Open bar, great speech, good time.
This was our first dance. Mike's idea--I'd balked at the idea at first--it seemed too typical. Too traditional, or stereotypical, or even a bit dorky. But then I reflected and realized that was who we were. We were all that in a nutshell. So in front of family and friends and amused onlookers, we scooted around the tile dance floor. My love may be like a storybook story, but it's as real as the feelings I feel.
Twelve
Dozen.
A dozen years is easily divided into...
Time living in crappy apartments (2 years) and time living in our house (10).
Time before kids (5 years) and time since (a millennium).
Time with cars we couldn't trust (4 years), time since (8).
Time when we couldn't afford it, and time when we could (varies, hard to measure).
Time trying to cooperate and time failing to cooperate.
Time arguing about how to mesh our families' traditions.
Time wondering why we argued about it.
Time spent traveling to places we want to go, and time spent traveling to places we have to go.
Time spent at funerals and weddings involving people one of us had no connection to.
Time waiting in hospital corridors.
Time spent wishing we were done with work and at home with the other.
Time spent worrying about each other's health and safety.
Time building secret glances, gestures, and code words only we understand.
Time sleeping with the cordless phone in hand waiting for your call.
Time collecting souvenirs of our life together.
One thing that I think of when I think about the epitome of what we are:
It's warm outside, probably midsummer like it is now. They're in the van together, traveling down to his parents' house. He's driving; she's looking out the window. Suddenly, she laughs, to herself, really, not even realizing she's audible.
"What is it?" he asks her.
"Oh, I was just thinking about the Bohr Model of the Atom."
He nods, she smiles at him, knowing he probably understands. And they drive on into the evening.
a familiar unit of quantity equal to 12. Division into units of 12
rather than 10 has the advantage that 12 can be evenly divided into
halves, thirds, or quarters. For this reason, units of 12 have been
common since the earliest civilizations of the Middle East. "Dozen"
comes from an old French word dozaine related to the Latin word
duodecem, "twelve."
A dozen years is easily divided into...
Time living in crappy apartments (2 years) and time living in our house (10).
Time before kids (5 years) and time since (a millennium).
Time with cars we couldn't trust (4 years), time since (8).
Time when we couldn't afford it, and time when we could (varies, hard to measure).
Time trying to cooperate and time failing to cooperate.
Time arguing about how to mesh our families' traditions.
Time wondering why we argued about it.
Time spent traveling to places we want to go, and time spent traveling to places we have to go.
Time spent at funerals and weddings involving people one of us had no connection to.
Time waiting in hospital corridors.
Time spent wishing we were done with work and at home with the other.
Time spent worrying about each other's health and safety.
Time building secret glances, gestures, and code words only we understand.
Time sleeping with the cordless phone in hand waiting for your call.
Time collecting souvenirs of our life together.
One thing that I think of when I think about the epitome of what we are:
It's warm outside, probably midsummer like it is now. They're in the van together, traveling down to his parents' house. He's driving; she's looking out the window. Suddenly, she laughs, to herself, really, not even realizing she's audible.
"What is it?" he asks her.
"Oh, I was just thinking about the Bohr Model of the Atom."
He nods, she smiles at him, knowing he probably understands. And they drive on into the evening.
Happy Belated Fourth!
Lovely few days. Slept in on Friday. Went to the History Museum--it had been since Maeve was 2 or so since I'd been, much longer for Mike. Saw Wall-E, which was very cute and had a good message. I loved the end credits. Then we went down to the SLU med school parking garage to watch the fireworks--it was hazy this year, not the best pictures. It was hard to get the camera to zoom and focus on something. Didn't have this trouble last year, and it was raining. Ah well.
This morning I got to sleep in AGAIN, while Mike went to the Farmer's Market at Tower Grove without me. Came home with tiny yellow tomatoes and berries. Lots of berries. And a few replacement nightshade family plants (two tomatoes and some peppers)--the weird spring did me no favors. So I went out and cleared out all the weeds in the garden, picked the second tomato of the year--red this time, not black (for new readers, black is a goal, not a mistake). Cut down all the volunteer sweetgum trees in the front yard. Thought more about the deck I want to build--not really a deck, just a platform next to the kids' pool so it's easier for them to get in and out, but made of wood decking, you know, 2 by 6's or whatever they are. Mike and my dad are scheduled for next Saturday morning. But it means moving some day lilies and clearing out a goat's worth of Virginia Creeper. Watered plants up at church, took a short, very short, nap on the couch, and grilled fish for dinner. Mary and Maloki came over, and after dinner we walked to the ice cream place on Grand, a new chain from Boston, Emack & Bolio's. I'm thinking they're going to have to expand their flavor options if they want to keep South Grand families interested. My kids can't be the pickiest ice cream snobs on the planet. If the Gelateria down South Grand can satisfy...anyway, they need a strawberry or mixed berry option. And a mint.
Tomorrow is our anniversary. We're going to mass in the morning, and then probably not much more for the rest of the day. If it doesn't get too hot too quickly, maybe we'll try a bike ride down at Grant's Trail or something like that. We'll see.
No news, no plans. Summer.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
The trouble with being perfect
I'm not perfect. But I did take a perfect vacation two years ago. Ok, not perfect--we visited a total of 3 mechanics (one was a scheduled oil change, the other two were emergencies) during the 16 days away. But it was perfect nonetheless. I was flipping through the book I made afterward on Blurb this afternoon. Every day was perfectly planned, and even the one time we did need a mechanic to keep the van overnight, a rental car place was in the same parking lot AND it was the one point in the trip that was a loop. So we left the van, went to King's Canyon, and came back for the van the next day. Oakhurst, California, by the way, is a spectacularly friendly amazing place.
Anyway, the kids were good, there was something for everyone, and all of it varied. We went to the Santa Cruz boardwalk, Chinatown in San Francisco, at least 6 National Parks, including Yosemite, a beach, forests, deserts, playgrounds. We ate picnics and take out pizza in hotel rooms and pancake breakfasts in KOA campground rec rooms. Plenty of coffee, ice cream, carousels, mountains, local color, on and on and on.
Right now I'm planning a shorter trip to the Smokies this fall. But every time I sit down to work on it, I'm demoralized. Nothing will ever be as good as our California trip. And I also know that re-vacationing to California will not be the same, either, because we've done it before. We want to take a southwest trip sometime in the future, and a northwest trip, but that'll be when kids are older. We can't do those huge trips every year--but we do try to do something. This year, the Smokies are the destination. But it's like one of those floaters in your eye, you try to look at it and it darts away? I can't focus. I keep thinking of red rocks and Sentinel Beach and Big Sur (poor Big Sur) and wishing, wishing, wishing I were there instead.
Ah well. There are other things to see and do. But I'm the girl who finds the one item on the menu she likes and always orders that when we go to that restaurant. Never mix never worry kind of thing. I found the vacation I like. Why would I want to do something else?
Kind of a pathetic thing to complain about, I know. And I'm not really complaining. Mostly just wistful...
Anyway, the kids were good, there was something for everyone, and all of it varied. We went to the Santa Cruz boardwalk, Chinatown in San Francisco, at least 6 National Parks, including Yosemite, a beach, forests, deserts, playgrounds. We ate picnics and take out pizza in hotel rooms and pancake breakfasts in KOA campground rec rooms. Plenty of coffee, ice cream, carousels, mountains, local color, on and on and on.
Right now I'm planning a shorter trip to the Smokies this fall. But every time I sit down to work on it, I'm demoralized. Nothing will ever be as good as our California trip. And I also know that re-vacationing to California will not be the same, either, because we've done it before. We want to take a southwest trip sometime in the future, and a northwest trip, but that'll be when kids are older. We can't do those huge trips every year--but we do try to do something. This year, the Smokies are the destination. But it's like one of those floaters in your eye, you try to look at it and it darts away? I can't focus. I keep thinking of red rocks and Sentinel Beach and Big Sur (poor Big Sur) and wishing, wishing, wishing I were there instead.
Ah well. There are other things to see and do. But I'm the girl who finds the one item on the menu she likes and always orders that when we go to that restaurant. Never mix never worry kind of thing. I found the vacation I like. Why would I want to do something else?
Kind of a pathetic thing to complain about, I know. And I'm not really complaining. Mostly just wistful...
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Dr. Horrible
I'm not the hugest, weirdest, foaming at the mouth Joss Whedon fan. I never understood why Angel was popular; only a few Buffy episodes hold my attention. And we have plenty here to choose from, because Mike in fact is that person. But Firefly, now that was a storyline I could sink my teeth into. Plus it had Nathan Fillion as the lead actor, and man, can't beat that.
Now Whedon is up to something new, Mike told me last night after he got home from the baseball game only to find both girls still up, wailing and gnashing teeth since they were so overtired they couldn't make themselves sleep. I was feeling lousy, physically (summertime and the living is not the easiest, in fact), and he describes this to me.
"It's called Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog," he says. "It's a three part web miniseries. Starts July 15. The bad guy is played by Neil Patrick Harris--"
Neil Patrick Harris? Whatever.
"And the hero that destroys his every move is Nathan Fillion."
I put my usual bedtime reading (that would be Dilbert) down and focus.
"I left the trailer up for you to see tomorrow."
I'm intrigued.
Now Whedon is up to something new, Mike told me last night after he got home from the baseball game only to find both girls still up, wailing and gnashing teeth since they were so overtired they couldn't make themselves sleep. I was feeling lousy, physically (summertime and the living is not the easiest, in fact), and he describes this to me.
"It's called Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog," he says. "It's a three part web miniseries. Starts July 15. The bad guy is played by Neil Patrick Harris--"
Neil Patrick Harris? Whatever.
"And the hero that destroys his every move is Nathan Fillion."
I put my usual bedtime reading (that would be Dilbert) down and focus.
"I left the trailer up for you to see tomorrow."
I'm intrigued.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Ear Tag
Sophia has an ear tag. She has an extra bit of skin in front of her ear. Like a little teardrop that sticks out. You don't notice it for the most part because ears are weird shapes anyway. Actually, the weirder the shape, the more likely there's trouble inside. Sophia's ear tag is not a big difference, but it is not just a skin abnormality--it is "vascular" as her pediatrician put it.
Here, you can see it, right in front of the ear canal, when she was 3. The only thing that alarms me about it is that it grows with her--it'll be big enough to pierce by the time she's 16. But in general, except when she fools with it when she's bored, I don't care much.
Her first pediatrician said, "We'll wait until she's 2 and have a plastic surgeon take care of it. It's too vascular to tie it off." My dad, when Sophia was born, suggested just that. But we took her advice and waited.
After the big fall out with the first pediatrician over lead testing and "cows milk," we started seeing Dr. Nile when Sophia was 18 months old. His first impression of the ear tag, after asking if we'd had her hearing tested (we had, of course, and all is well), was, "too bad you didn't tie it off when she was born. Now she'd need general anesthesia."
He was right. We went to a plastic surgeon for consultation. She took pictures of it. Told us it was not a medically necessary procedure (meaning, insurance wouldn't cover it) and yes, it would need general anesthesia. "Too bad they had you wait. It's an easy thing with a newborn."
I decided I'd wait until she was 6 or 7 and see what she wanted to do.
She has decided she doesn't care. Her hair is curly and all over the place. And, like I said, ears are weird anyway.
Last night at bedtime, Sophia asked, "What's a birthmark?" Mike defined it for her, and then showed her Maeve's little birthmark on her scalp.
"Do I have a birthmark?"
"No, but you have an ear tag," Mike reminded her. Maeve was interested. Very interested.
"Do I have an ear tag?" she asked.
"No, just Sophia," Mike answered, too casually.
"I WANT AN EAR TAG!!" Maeve burst into tears. Mike pointed out that he didn't have one, that I didn't have one, that nobody else we knew had one. This was the wrong way to go. It made Sophia special. Unique. A dumb brown spot on your scalp is not the same thing at all. And pointing out her adorable, desirable, highly coveted dimple next to her nose did nothing.
"I don't want a dimple! I want an ear tag!" She ran to the bathroom, slammed the door, and sobbed.
So there's a special sibling moment for you. Almost as good as when my sister Bevin named Colleen's big front tooth "Old Chopper."
Here, you can see it, right in front of the ear canal, when she was 3. The only thing that alarms me about it is that it grows with her--it'll be big enough to pierce by the time she's 16. But in general, except when she fools with it when she's bored, I don't care much.Her first pediatrician said, "We'll wait until she's 2 and have a plastic surgeon take care of it. It's too vascular to tie it off." My dad, when Sophia was born, suggested just that. But we took her advice and waited.
After the big fall out with the first pediatrician over lead testing and "cows milk," we started seeing Dr. Nile when Sophia was 18 months old. His first impression of the ear tag, after asking if we'd had her hearing tested (we had, of course, and all is well), was, "too bad you didn't tie it off when she was born. Now she'd need general anesthesia."
He was right. We went to a plastic surgeon for consultation. She took pictures of it. Told us it was not a medically necessary procedure (meaning, insurance wouldn't cover it) and yes, it would need general anesthesia. "Too bad they had you wait. It's an easy thing with a newborn."
I decided I'd wait until she was 6 or 7 and see what she wanted to do.
She has decided she doesn't care. Her hair is curly and all over the place. And, like I said, ears are weird anyway.
Last night at bedtime, Sophia asked, "What's a birthmark?" Mike defined it for her, and then showed her Maeve's little birthmark on her scalp.
"Do I have a birthmark?"
"No, but you have an ear tag," Mike reminded her. Maeve was interested. Very interested.
"Do I have an ear tag?" she asked.
"No, just Sophia," Mike answered, too casually.
"I WANT AN EAR TAG!!" Maeve burst into tears. Mike pointed out that he didn't have one, that I didn't have one, that nobody else we knew had one. This was the wrong way to go. It made Sophia special. Unique. A dumb brown spot on your scalp is not the same thing at all. And pointing out her adorable, desirable, highly coveted dimple next to her nose did nothing.
"I don't want a dimple! I want an ear tag!" She ran to the bathroom, slammed the door, and sobbed.
So there's a special sibling moment for you. Almost as good as when my sister Bevin named Colleen's big front tooth "Old Chopper."
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