I've been taking the new thyroid medication for one week. Essentially, this doctor has tripled my old dose (I looked up a conversion chart online, of course). I kept expecting heart palpitations and rapid heartbeat and uncontrollable panting, sweating--signs of too much thyroid medication/hormone. But nothing of the sort. Not even close. So I guess it turns out I really am hypothyroid. Seriously. For a while there I'd convinced myself that this wasn't my problem. That somehow all the symptoms were caused by something else (post-partum adjustments, laziness, poor sleep hygiene) and my somewhat normal bloodwork was totally telling the truth.
Well, it isn't. I'm convinced now. Because this week...
I took one nap, and that was Sunday afternoon with the baby. Total indulgence instead of necessary to keep moving.
I made a skirt for Sophia.
I finished Sophia's sweater that I've been working on for a shameful length of time.
I got about halfway done with Leo's baby quilt that I've been working on for a shameful length of time.
I cleaned the guestroom, the bathroom, my bedroom, the kitchen.
I almost finished the kitchen painting.
I stood on my back porch and surveyed the damage a summer of neglect does to a yard. And I got kind of angry. Angry at myself for letting things get so bad, angry at people around me for not noticing that I was drowning, angry at the first and second doctors for pointing at my (medicated) TSH levels and saying, nope, everything's fine there (without looking at my T3 levels, whatever all this means...). And then I got kind of hard to live with for 3 or 4 days (just ask Mike). And then I let it go.
I made a batch of muffins for back-to-school meet-and-greet whatever thing.
I made a pie.
I took Leo's 6 month photos the day after he turned 7 months. Ah well.
I did a tie-dye project with Sophia, Maeve, and a neighbor.
I had coffee only 3 of the past 8 days (instead of my usual 8 of the last 8 days).
I went on a 24 mile bike ride.
I started cleaning up the mess of my yard, but slowly because it is somewhat (no, a lot) discouraging.
I helped the girls clean the attic. Without yelling.
I did a lot of laundry. And a lot of vacuuming.
I got Sophia to Kumon on the right day and time.
I was able to figure out what our fall schedule, with dance and Kumon and piano, will be. Seriously, this sort of planning was kind of beyond me a few weeks ago.
I got up at 6:30 this morning, got everyone up and ready and out the door by 8:05, with Sophia's lunch made and everyone fed breakfast and the baby changed twice.
I kept realizing that I was happy. Suddenly and for the first time in who knows how long.
And now it's 1 in the afternoon on the first day of school. I have to get the van looked at sometime maybe today, maybe not today (depends on the insurance company), at the auto body place, I have to go to Target, I have to pick up Sophia, she has to go to dance, dinner has to happen somewhere in there...and it doesn't make me want to crawl into bed and sleep for 4 hours just to get ready.
I'm convinced.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Maeve is who she is
You know, my mother-in-law this afternoon said every gray hair on my head is going to be Maeve's fault. And it's true.
She woke up at 10:30, which is incredibly late, and told me her throat hurt. I gave her the regular maintenance inhaler (flovent) and told her to get a drink of water. No improvement with waking up and getting going. Then her belly hurt. And her forehead. I took her temperature. Nada. Then her face started losing color and she started feeling floppy. Still responsive but ya know, once bitten twice shy. I thought immediately that we were en route to seizure and I sort of lost perspective.
If Sophia had a sore throat and acted sick, I'd have put a sheet on the couch and turned on cartoons. But Maeve gets a phone call to the doctor. Then she threw up and it cinched the deal. Sore throat plus vomiting sometimes means strep throat and I thought we'd better go.
She slept from the time she threw up until the nurse practitioner came into the room. Seriously. I carried to and from the car, I dropped off the other kids at my mom's, she remembered nothing. Of course she was CHARMING for the NP, like nothing was wrong, even her cheeks got a little color. Magic doctors' offices. They did a strep culture because of the vomiting and headache with sudden sore throat, but nothing there. No fever either. So yeah. It's a virus. She's on a three day timer and if she worsens or doesn't feel better by Sunday, I'm to call back and they'll see if it's something else (or something predatory that came in while she had the virus).
We got home, she had a popsicle, and the two girls watched cartoons. Maeve lay on the couch on a sheet and I realized pretty soon, that doctor's office is going to think I have munchausen's syndrome by proxy if I don't control this trigger finger.
So I'm going to go get some housework done and try not to be that mom.
She woke up at 10:30, which is incredibly late, and told me her throat hurt. I gave her the regular maintenance inhaler (flovent) and told her to get a drink of water. No improvement with waking up and getting going. Then her belly hurt. And her forehead. I took her temperature. Nada. Then her face started losing color and she started feeling floppy. Still responsive but ya know, once bitten twice shy. I thought immediately that we were en route to seizure and I sort of lost perspective.
If Sophia had a sore throat and acted sick, I'd have put a sheet on the couch and turned on cartoons. But Maeve gets a phone call to the doctor. Then she threw up and it cinched the deal. Sore throat plus vomiting sometimes means strep throat and I thought we'd better go.
She slept from the time she threw up until the nurse practitioner came into the room. Seriously. I carried to and from the car, I dropped off the other kids at my mom's, she remembered nothing. Of course she was CHARMING for the NP, like nothing was wrong, even her cheeks got a little color. Magic doctors' offices. They did a strep culture because of the vomiting and headache with sudden sore throat, but nothing there. No fever either. So yeah. It's a virus. She's on a three day timer and if she worsens or doesn't feel better by Sunday, I'm to call back and they'll see if it's something else (or something predatory that came in while she had the virus).
We got home, she had a popsicle, and the two girls watched cartoons. Maeve lay on the couch on a sheet and I realized pretty soon, that doctor's office is going to think I have munchausen's syndrome by proxy if I don't control this trigger finger.
So I'm going to go get some housework done and try not to be that mom.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The 5 Best Things About the First Day of School
Why Is it That English Allows Capitalization in Titles for Some Small Words But not Others? Is there a Rule?
Moving on, from Mama Kat, well, the title is already up there.
From Mom's point of view, the five best things about the first day of school are:
1. The promise of a good year, the slate wiped clean, the teacher doesn't know I'm a bitch yet. This doesn't apply at our school, however, because Sophia had the same teacher for kindergarten and first grade, and now has the same teacher for third that she had for second. And next year Maeve with have the kindergarten teacher (most likely). Everybody knows my game. But I could conceivably see this as an advantage.
2. I have to wake up in the mornings. Turns out, I'm a morning person. But I love to sleep in. School makes me get up and get moving. And then I don't stay up until 2:30 in the morning clicking on I Can Has Cheezburger and wondering if my Australian and Kiwi blogs are updated yet.
3. Seeing all the other moms and dads again for the first time in 3 months and remembering that, yes, I do like these people.
4. Watching Sophia (Maeve too but it's been more palpable with Sophia) interact with the same kids from last year with shy waves and "hi". Maeve gets in their faces, but Sophia observes from a distance. It's a sweet moment of awkwardness that is gone by the second day when she, too, remembers that yes, she does like these people.
5. Watching Sophia (three years in a row now) go into the main part of the classroom and plop down in the circle, right next to the teacher. She gives this smile, please please like me, and I see myself from 26 or 27 years ago.
The 5 best things about the first day of school, from when I was a student:
1. Wondering if my desk and I would get along. Would it be the right height, would there be enough room to stash my books? Or would this new school (it was often a new school) have those kinds of desks? Hoping I'd get a good place to be was always present.
2. The smell of new pencils.
3. New textbooks, cracking them open for the first time. New notebooks. Later on, spending part of the morning covering textbooks with brown paper bags or the mass-produced advertisement-emblazoned book covers. Deciding how I would label each book.
4. A clean classroom, a teacher who didn't look tired, maybe it'll be a good year (except for 5th grade and 10th grade, it was always a good year).
5. Knowing that no real work would get done that day. At all. It was all syllabus distribution and classroom rules and book covering and desk rearranging. Almost as good as the last week of school.
As a teacher, the 5 best things about the first day of school were:
1. The challenge to learn everyone's name by the end of the day.
2. Letting kids pick their own seats, seeing how that panned out (it almost never worked perfectly). Watching what friendships were already formed, which ones might, and what I might have to look out for. Writing it down so I could look back in October and see if I was right.
3.. Again with the clean slate--even if Pete had been a annoying little so and so last year, maybe this year will work better. Even if Mrs. K told me to watch out for Thuy and Thiky or Ian and Eric or Bao and Mary--hoping that maybe for me, it would be ok. By the time Mrs. K was telling me these things, it was always ok for me.
4. I enjoyed handing everyone a math book and telling them that by the end of the year, we would have completely finished the book. Seeing the looks of disbelief: "we've never finished a math book before." Telling them that even with taking every Friday off for either a project or a test, we would still finish the book. We always did. Ooh--and I liked explaining my totally outcome-based education plan for grading. Basically, even if you make D's and C's and F's at the beginning of the year, if you're making B's and A's by the end, you'll make a B (or an A) in the class. Math is cumulative. Work hard and learn and don't be burdened by your past failures. This always caught the attention of a certain group of students--mostly slacker boys and low-confidence girls. Always my favorites. Both years I taught math, I had to go to bat for them to the principal who did not understand how Jeff or Joe or Ann could have a 75 average first quarter and a 92 average second quarter and how that turned out to be a 92 for the semester. It doesn't average out, she'd tell me. But that's not the point of learning math, I'd say back, we are preparing them for high school success. Well, I hope no parents complain, she'd half-threaten. Then I'd try hard not to give her a you are too dumb to live look and go back up to my room.
But that part wasn't on the first day.
5. The very best thing about the first day of school when I taught, whether at Simmons or Andrews or Joan's or Pius, was sitting alone in my classroom at 7 in the morning watching the sun rise over the houses. At Andrews it was over a park and a corporate-style pond with geese. At Joan's it was peeking through the pin oaks between my classroom and the church. At Simmons and Pius, it rose over red brick and asphalt, green trees and city streets. It was always some kind of hopeful moment, an unspoken prayer, an alignment of past and future as I listened to myself breathe, clearing my mind for the day and year ahead.
Good luck to everyone! Have a good year!
Moving on, from Mama Kat, well, the title is already up there.
From Mom's point of view, the five best things about the first day of school are:
1. The promise of a good year, the slate wiped clean, the teacher doesn't know I'm a bitch yet. This doesn't apply at our school, however, because Sophia had the same teacher for kindergarten and first grade, and now has the same teacher for third that she had for second. And next year Maeve with have the kindergarten teacher (most likely). Everybody knows my game. But I could conceivably see this as an advantage.
2. I have to wake up in the mornings. Turns out, I'm a morning person. But I love to sleep in. School makes me get up and get moving. And then I don't stay up until 2:30 in the morning clicking on I Can Has Cheezburger and wondering if my Australian and Kiwi blogs are updated yet.
3. Seeing all the other moms and dads again for the first time in 3 months and remembering that, yes, I do like these people.
4. Watching Sophia (Maeve too but it's been more palpable with Sophia) interact with the same kids from last year with shy waves and "hi". Maeve gets in their faces, but Sophia observes from a distance. It's a sweet moment of awkwardness that is gone by the second day when she, too, remembers that yes, she does like these people.
5. Watching Sophia (three years in a row now) go into the main part of the classroom and plop down in the circle, right next to the teacher. She gives this smile, please please like me, and I see myself from 26 or 27 years ago.
The 5 best things about the first day of school, from when I was a student:
1. Wondering if my desk and I would get along. Would it be the right height, would there be enough room to stash my books? Or would this new school (it was often a new school) have those kinds of desks? Hoping I'd get a good place to be was always present.
2. The smell of new pencils.
3. New textbooks, cracking them open for the first time. New notebooks. Later on, spending part of the morning covering textbooks with brown paper bags or the mass-produced advertisement-emblazoned book covers. Deciding how I would label each book.
4. A clean classroom, a teacher who didn't look tired, maybe it'll be a good year (except for 5th grade and 10th grade, it was always a good year).
5. Knowing that no real work would get done that day. At all. It was all syllabus distribution and classroom rules and book covering and desk rearranging. Almost as good as the last week of school.
As a teacher, the 5 best things about the first day of school were:
1. The challenge to learn everyone's name by the end of the day.
2. Letting kids pick their own seats, seeing how that panned out (it almost never worked perfectly). Watching what friendships were already formed, which ones might, and what I might have to look out for. Writing it down so I could look back in October and see if I was right.
3.. Again with the clean slate--even if Pete had been a annoying little so and so last year, maybe this year will work better. Even if Mrs. K told me to watch out for Thuy and Thiky or Ian and Eric or Bao and Mary--hoping that maybe for me, it would be ok. By the time Mrs. K was telling me these things, it was always ok for me.
4. I enjoyed handing everyone a math book and telling them that by the end of the year, we would have completely finished the book. Seeing the looks of disbelief: "we've never finished a math book before." Telling them that even with taking every Friday off for either a project or a test, we would still finish the book. We always did. Ooh--and I liked explaining my totally outcome-based education plan for grading. Basically, even if you make D's and C's and F's at the beginning of the year, if you're making B's and A's by the end, you'll make a B (or an A) in the class. Math is cumulative. Work hard and learn and don't be burdened by your past failures. This always caught the attention of a certain group of students--mostly slacker boys and low-confidence girls. Always my favorites. Both years I taught math, I had to go to bat for them to the principal who did not understand how Jeff or Joe or Ann could have a 75 average first quarter and a 92 average second quarter and how that turned out to be a 92 for the semester. It doesn't average out, she'd tell me. But that's not the point of learning math, I'd say back, we are preparing them for high school success. Well, I hope no parents complain, she'd half-threaten. Then I'd try hard not to give her a you are too dumb to live look and go back up to my room.
But that part wasn't on the first day.
5. The very best thing about the first day of school when I taught, whether at Simmons or Andrews or Joan's or Pius, was sitting alone in my classroom at 7 in the morning watching the sun rise over the houses. At Andrews it was over a park and a corporate-style pond with geese. At Joan's it was peeking through the pin oaks between my classroom and the church. At Simmons and Pius, it rose over red brick and asphalt, green trees and city streets. It was always some kind of hopeful moment, an unspoken prayer, an alignment of past and future as I listened to myself breathe, clearing my mind for the day and year ahead.
Good luck to everyone! Have a good year!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A Successful Summer Comes to an End
Here we are, less than a week to go before Sophia returns to school. And I've been a little out of touch lately, mostly because Mike was out of town for a week and I sort of hit rock bottom. But things seem to be looking up (I've been awake all day for the last 3 days--and I don't see today becoming a problem). I'm getting things done. It's nice.
This summer began with all sorts of worries about Sophia and ends with some worries about Maeve. Isn't that the way it goes? Sophia has had such a successful summer--she learned to read just when I was terrified she wasn't going to make it; she learned to swim; she learned to ride a bike. She held her own with the neighbor girls (although really she only saw one in particular, almost every day, which was fine with me because groups of girls sometimes get, well, snitchy-cat). She made progress in the "being a good, non-abusive, caring older sister" category. She still whines like a puppy when it's time to clean the room, and Maeve is the scapegoat du jour, but it's better.
Maeve on the other hand needs to be my next project. Actually, things are going ok. It was the week Mike was out of town that we also hit bottom. Somehow I keep forgetting that she's 4. She's so verbal and wants to play with the older girls...but that's not always a good thing and it sets her up for failure. The mother of the girl she's closest to here on the block mentioned they might be sending their daughter to kindergarten a year early (she's an early September birthday so it wouldn't be that big of a stretch), which would put her in Maeve's class. That would be nice--otherwise Maeve is sort of alone here, and here is where my center is. Yes, there are friends at school, but I already know these women and they know me and I don't have to worry (or apologize for being myself). And the one friend at school whose mom I really like is moving to the other location--they'll still be in kindergarten together in a year, which is great, but I have to remember to keep her in mind this year. I think the kindergarten class at the school will be a good one. And another year of preschool is totally called for. All of Maeve's troubles are social, and in ways that are harder to sympathize with than Sophia's social troubles (Sophia is a follower and a teacher pleaser and wears her feelings on her sleeve; Maeve is at the edge of bully, has a hard time with impulse control, and is stubborn--which one would you rather deal with?).
We had a good summer. Swim camp, dance camp, art camp, Camp Gran. A trip to the Rockies that was about as spontaneous as we get (we decided to go with the neighbors in, what, May?). We saw Mary Poppins at the Fox and Mike and I, with Leo, saw "Moon" at the Tivoli. That would be our theater trips for the year, most likely!
I started painting the kitchen (it will be done before Sophia goes to school, I vow). And I'll post pictures when it's complete. I bought a table off Craigslist that I absolutely love and is perfect for the kitchen. We even opened the door to the kitchen bathroom and started looking inside at more than just the cat litter box. How to rehab it, how to make it nice and useful.
I let the yard go to pieces. Completely. I'll just leave it at that--and the pumpkin and the tomatoes that continue to grow out of sheer willpower, I think.
We didn't bike as much as usual. Leo was too little at first, and then once he was big enough, I couldn't stay awake long enough to bike. Seriously. We're going this afternoon, though, once Mike is home. This can't just be the placebo effect. I feel different, like I've awakened from a dream or something. I hope it doesn't change (or if it does, I hope I realize it's changing before two or three months go by).
I could have done more housework; I'm only half finished with the basement cleaning. But I could always do more housework. It will never be all done.
My grandmother was dying, and then she wasn't. And then she was, and now she isn't again. And, like I said then, it's ok, however it happens. My sisters spent some time with me and I'm shocked at how we're all shards of the same mirror. My brother, too, although I see him less since he's 900 miles away. But our Venn Diagrams cross more than I thought they did. My mother had knee surgery; Maeve continued to not have another seizure and not have another asthma episode.
Sophia placed at the one feis we went to and continued to let that all fall off her back as no big thing. She's started to try to teach Maeve to read. Leo is sitting up and rolling over and standing at the furniture if I put him there (he doesn't pull up but he will stand and look proud). I watched a lot of TV on DVDs and Hulu and thought about Christmas knitting but didn't start any of it yet. Leo's baby quilt is still almost done. And gorgeous.
Ok, that's enough. I should do something else with my time.
This summer began with all sorts of worries about Sophia and ends with some worries about Maeve. Isn't that the way it goes? Sophia has had such a successful summer--she learned to read just when I was terrified she wasn't going to make it; she learned to swim; she learned to ride a bike. She held her own with the neighbor girls (although really she only saw one in particular, almost every day, which was fine with me because groups of girls sometimes get, well, snitchy-cat). She made progress in the "being a good, non-abusive, caring older sister" category. She still whines like a puppy when it's time to clean the room, and Maeve is the scapegoat du jour, but it's better.
Maeve on the other hand needs to be my next project. Actually, things are going ok. It was the week Mike was out of town that we also hit bottom. Somehow I keep forgetting that she's 4. She's so verbal and wants to play with the older girls...but that's not always a good thing and it sets her up for failure. The mother of the girl she's closest to here on the block mentioned they might be sending their daughter to kindergarten a year early (she's an early September birthday so it wouldn't be that big of a stretch), which would put her in Maeve's class. That would be nice--otherwise Maeve is sort of alone here, and here is where my center is. Yes, there are friends at school, but I already know these women and they know me and I don't have to worry (or apologize for being myself). And the one friend at school whose mom I really like is moving to the other location--they'll still be in kindergarten together in a year, which is great, but I have to remember to keep her in mind this year. I think the kindergarten class at the school will be a good one. And another year of preschool is totally called for. All of Maeve's troubles are social, and in ways that are harder to sympathize with than Sophia's social troubles (Sophia is a follower and a teacher pleaser and wears her feelings on her sleeve; Maeve is at the edge of bully, has a hard time with impulse control, and is stubborn--which one would you rather deal with?).
We had a good summer. Swim camp, dance camp, art camp, Camp Gran. A trip to the Rockies that was about as spontaneous as we get (we decided to go with the neighbors in, what, May?). We saw Mary Poppins at the Fox and Mike and I, with Leo, saw "Moon" at the Tivoli. That would be our theater trips for the year, most likely!
I started painting the kitchen (it will be done before Sophia goes to school, I vow). And I'll post pictures when it's complete. I bought a table off Craigslist that I absolutely love and is perfect for the kitchen. We even opened the door to the kitchen bathroom and started looking inside at more than just the cat litter box. How to rehab it, how to make it nice and useful.
I let the yard go to pieces. Completely. I'll just leave it at that--and the pumpkin and the tomatoes that continue to grow out of sheer willpower, I think.
We didn't bike as much as usual. Leo was too little at first, and then once he was big enough, I couldn't stay awake long enough to bike. Seriously. We're going this afternoon, though, once Mike is home. This can't just be the placebo effect. I feel different, like I've awakened from a dream or something. I hope it doesn't change (or if it does, I hope I realize it's changing before two or three months go by).
I could have done more housework; I'm only half finished with the basement cleaning. But I could always do more housework. It will never be all done.
My grandmother was dying, and then she wasn't. And then she was, and now she isn't again. And, like I said then, it's ok, however it happens. My sisters spent some time with me and I'm shocked at how we're all shards of the same mirror. My brother, too, although I see him less since he's 900 miles away. But our Venn Diagrams cross more than I thought they did. My mother had knee surgery; Maeve continued to not have another seizure and not have another asthma episode.
Sophia placed at the one feis we went to and continued to let that all fall off her back as no big thing. She's started to try to teach Maeve to read. Leo is sitting up and rolling over and standing at the furniture if I put him there (he doesn't pull up but he will stand and look proud). I watched a lot of TV on DVDs and Hulu and thought about Christmas knitting but didn't start any of it yet. Leo's baby quilt is still almost done. And gorgeous.
Ok, that's enough. I should do something else with my time.
Ten on Tuesday: 10 things I hate about traveling
Oh yeah, I'm there. In many ways, I hate to travel. Really. I like being places and seeing things and visiting friends but there are things I just do not like. And they are:
1. If staying with friends, having to share a bathroom and shower. I love ya, but I just like my own shower. And trying to get dressed in a guest bathroom the size of a small kitchen cabinet and all steamed up from the hot water is no picnic either.
2. Air travel. Just period. End of story. I hate flying now.
3. Having to guess whether this or that hotel will be ok. Or, more usually, if that state park cabin or this national park lodge will be ok. They usually are ok. But I get tense.
4. Sleeping in a car while someone else drives. I don't do it often, because it never turns out well for me.
5. Kids who get bored in the car but there's little I can do to help them. Especially when they are 5 months old.
6. Getting lost. This happens to us at least once every major trip. Usually in small ways, but the panic mixes with fury and it's just not good for me.
7. Forgetting that one thing I was supposed to pack. Whatever it might be.
8. The inevitable trip to Wal*Mart in the middle of the night or in the middle of the woods. Either way--it's the only option and dang it, I'm there again buying tylenol or picking up a prescription or having my tires repaired (really).
9. The last 3 hours of the trip home. Excruciating. Doesn't matter if we're going to California or to Cairo (which, by the way, is only 2 1/2 hours away, so the 3 hours starts even before we leave). The car feels stale, the kids are bored, I'm already unpacking and doing laundry in my head.
10. After we're home, needing to take a vacation to recover. Not always, but often enough. The house is never as clean as I planned for it to be before we left, there's a mountain of laundry to scale, a fridge to clean out, and somebody left something somewhere on the way and just realized it's missing....
Wow. It makes me want to pack my bags right now.
1. If staying with friends, having to share a bathroom and shower. I love ya, but I just like my own shower. And trying to get dressed in a guest bathroom the size of a small kitchen cabinet and all steamed up from the hot water is no picnic either.
2. Air travel. Just period. End of story. I hate flying now.
3. Having to guess whether this or that hotel will be ok. Or, more usually, if that state park cabin or this national park lodge will be ok. They usually are ok. But I get tense.
4. Sleeping in a car while someone else drives. I don't do it often, because it never turns out well for me.
5. Kids who get bored in the car but there's little I can do to help them. Especially when they are 5 months old.
6. Getting lost. This happens to us at least once every major trip. Usually in small ways, but the panic mixes with fury and it's just not good for me.
7. Forgetting that one thing I was supposed to pack. Whatever it might be.
8. The inevitable trip to Wal*Mart in the middle of the night or in the middle of the woods. Either way--it's the only option and dang it, I'm there again buying tylenol or picking up a prescription or having my tires repaired (really).
9. The last 3 hours of the trip home. Excruciating. Doesn't matter if we're going to California or to Cairo (which, by the way, is only 2 1/2 hours away, so the 3 hours starts even before we leave). The car feels stale, the kids are bored, I'm already unpacking and doing laundry in my head.
10. After we're home, needing to take a vacation to recover. Not always, but often enough. The house is never as clean as I planned for it to be before we left, there's a mountain of laundry to scale, a fridge to clean out, and somebody left something somewhere on the way and just realized it's missing....
Wow. It makes me want to pack my bags right now.
Monday, August 24, 2009
100 Species: the first 10
These are easy ones. I ran out just now and took some photos and voila. Actually, a few of these photos are older--obviously we're not in the middle of an ice storm, and my kids are a little older than they look in the last photo. But still.
1. Liquidamber styraciflua: The sweetgum tree. Most people hate these trees because they drop those big sticky balls (meaning sharp, not gooey) all over their lawns. I actually had a neighbor offer to cut mine down. But it's a street tree (meaning only half mine, and half belonging to the city), plus, I LIKE THEM. I may be the only person in the whole world, but I think they're gorgeous. The fall colors range from orange and red through yellow all the way to purple. They are huge shade trees and since there are no wires out in the front of my house, let it be. Let it grow and shade my living room window and make me happy.
2. Platanus occidentalis: the sycamore. I love these trees.
3. Quercus velutina: black oak. It has other names, too, but I'm going to call it that. These are across the street, other tree lawn trees. It was in looking at these and the others on my block that I began to realize that oaks might just be impossible to classify. At least by the typical layman like me. They hybridize like mad teenagers in the back of a car and produce mysterious specimens that are also fertile...but I'm pretty sure this one is velutina. It's full of acorns right now. Sit on the front porch and listen to them fall on the cars.4. Tilia americana: American basswood. We lost THREE of these in the storms of 2006. Our street, I mean. I don't have any myself. What I like about these is their seeds, which have a little flag on them like another leaf (just another way to propel). But this means the tree looks like it has two different kinds of leaves in the late summer, the dark green true leaves and the little capes in light green. Cute.
5. Zelkova serrata: A new street tree two doors down. It's the answer to Dutch Elm disease--it's related to the elm, but doesn't succumb. It seems to be growing rather slowly, but maybe it's because I'm sitting here watching it all the time. It's a pretty little tree, replacing a beautiful red maple that just up and died one day. Seriously. Suddenly all the leaves were dead and the thing started falling apart. This one looks sturdy.6. Quercus palustrus: the pin oak. These hold their leaves through the winter, and when the wind blows through them, it's just lovely. One neighbor dislikes them for this reason, which shocked me because they're gorgeous trees. But then again, I don't rake my yard. Leaves fall for a reason.
7. Acer saccharinum: the silver maple. This one will be leaving our yard soon. It splits too early (low) on its trunk and is in our front yard. Silver maples are kind of a scourge. Not like Tree of Heaven or something, but they are annoying in many ways. The worst part seems to be the cracking and the splitting in thunderstorms. But I will admit I like the way they look when a storm is coming, the wind catching the underside of the leaves and the white-silver flash.8. Acer x freemanii: this is a red maple-silver maple hybrid. It's stronger than the silver, with a good solid center trunk. We're hoping this one will make a good tree house location in the near future.
9. Quercus rubra: Northern Red Oak. I usually refer to the oak here as a velutina, but it is probably a Red Oak. Or perhaps, as I mention above, a hybrid of the two (which would be a Quercus x hawkinsiae, a Hawkins Oak). Perhaps I shouldn't count it. But I think I will because I think about this tree a lot and wonder and read and look things up and still it is a minor mystery.10. Magnolia × soulangeana: The Saucer Magnolia, although I was always referring to it as the sugar magnolia like from the Grateful Dead song? But this is its real name, and it's the pink flowering tree in springtime. We have one on our western fence line (doesn't that make it sound like we have acres and acres of yard?) that is my absolute favorite actual tree (I have favorite types of tree, but the reality is this tree represents everything lovely about my house.
And Now For Something Right Up My Alley (literally)
Tales of Homeschool turned me on to this project, which is based on the comment some now-forgotten author made that most people cannot identify 100 plants growing within walking distance of their homes. Well, I think I probably can. So I'm going to try. Some things I planted, some things are weeds in my yard. Some will be in the park or in yards nearby. And trees. The original rules say that closely related hybrids (like two types of tomatoes) should not be listed as separate entries. That's fine, but I think that if I can see the difference, I can count them. Pin oaks and scarlet oaks and black oaks and so forth. So we'll see how I do. I'm going to try to do 10 at a time. Here are the official rules and the link to her blog:
1. Participants should include a copy of these rules and a link to this entry in their initial blog post about the challenge. I will make a sidebar list of anyone who notifies me that they are participating in the Challenge.
2. Participants should keep a list of all plant species they can name, either by common or scientific name, that are living within walking distance of the participant's home. The list should be numbered, and should appear in every blog entry about the challenge, or in a sidebar.
3. Participants are encouraged to give detailed information about the plants they can name in the first post in which that plant appears. My format will be as follows: the numbered list, with plants making their first appearance on the list in bold; each plant making its first appearance will then have a photograph taken by me, where possible, a list of information I already knew about the plant, and a list of information I learned subsequent to starting this challenge, and a list of information I'd like to know. (See below for an example.) This format is not obligatory, however, and participants can adapt this portion of the challenge to their needs and desires.
4. Participants are encouraged to make it possible for visitors to their blog to find easily all 100-Species-Challenge blog posts. This can be done either by tagging these posts, by ending every post on the challenge with a link to your previous post on the challenge, or by some method which surpasses my technological ability and creativity.
5. Participants may post pictures of plants they are unable to identify, or are unable to identify with precision. They should not include these plants in the numbered list until they are able to identify it with relative precision. Each participant shall determine the level of precision that is acceptable to her; however, being able to distinguish between plants that have different common names should be a bare minimum.
6. Different varieties of the same species shall not count as different entries (e.g., Celebrity Tomato and Roma Tomato should not be separate entries); however, different species which share a common name be separate if the participant is able to distinguish between them (e.g., camillia japonica and camillia sassanqua if the participant can distinguish the two--"camillia" if not).
7. Participants may take as long as they like to complete the challenge. You can make it as quick or as detailed a project as you like. I'm planning to blog a minimum of two plants per week, complete with pictures and descriptions as below, which could take me up to a year. But you can do it in whatever level of detail you like.
1. Participants should include a copy of these rules and a link to this entry in their initial blog post about the challenge. I will make a sidebar list of anyone who notifies me that they are participating in the Challenge.
2. Participants should keep a list of all plant species they can name, either by common or scientific name, that are living within walking distance of the participant's home. The list should be numbered, and should appear in every blog entry about the challenge, or in a sidebar.
3. Participants are encouraged to give detailed information about the plants they can name in the first post in which that plant appears. My format will be as follows: the numbered list, with plants making their first appearance on the list in bold; each plant making its first appearance will then have a photograph taken by me, where possible, a list of information I already knew about the plant, and a list of information I learned subsequent to starting this challenge, and a list of information I'd like to know. (See below for an example.) This format is not obligatory, however, and participants can adapt this portion of the challenge to their needs and desires.
4. Participants are encouraged to make it possible for visitors to their blog to find easily all 100-Species-Challenge blog posts. This can be done either by tagging these posts, by ending every post on the challenge with a link to your previous post on the challenge, or by some method which surpasses my technological ability and creativity.
5. Participants may post pictures of plants they are unable to identify, or are unable to identify with precision. They should not include these plants in the numbered list until they are able to identify it with relative precision. Each participant shall determine the level of precision that is acceptable to her; however, being able to distinguish between plants that have different common names should be a bare minimum.
6. Different varieties of the same species shall not count as different entries (e.g., Celebrity Tomato and Roma Tomato should not be separate entries); however, different species which share a common name be separate if the participant is able to distinguish between them (e.g., camillia japonica and camillia sassanqua if the participant can distinguish the two--"camillia" if not).
7. Participants may take as long as they like to complete the challenge. You can make it as quick or as detailed a project as you like. I'm planning to blog a minimum of two plants per week, complete with pictures and descriptions as below, which could take me up to a year. But you can do it in whatever level of detail you like.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Test Results!
My doctor's office mailed me the results. I think that's the first time a doctor has just said, "here, read it" with any sort of test result. There's also a huge long page of explanation handwritten by the doctor about any and all abnormal results.
Like she suspected, my T3 is low but the T4 and TSH are in the normal range (because I'm medicated for the T4 already). So she's putting me on a different thyroid replacement in conjunction with what I'm taking right now. My vitamin D was also dangerously low, and that needs to be handled immediately. Huh. But my blood glucose was amazing and my good cholesterol was great. On everything else, I was average. Which is just fine with me.
So I've already been to the pharmacy and picked up the rest of their thyroid medication--there's a run on it right now (of course) but since this is likely a long term situation, the pharmacist told me she'd keep calling on the back order and see what's going on.
If it's going to work, I should feel different in two weeks. Yay.
Like she suspected, my T3 is low but the T4 and TSH are in the normal range (because I'm medicated for the T4 already). So she's putting me on a different thyroid replacement in conjunction with what I'm taking right now. My vitamin D was also dangerously low, and that needs to be handled immediately. Huh. But my blood glucose was amazing and my good cholesterol was great. On everything else, I was average. Which is just fine with me.
So I've already been to the pharmacy and picked up the rest of their thyroid medication--there's a run on it right now (of course) but since this is likely a long term situation, the pharmacist told me she'd keep calling on the back order and see what's going on.
If it's going to work, I should feel different in two weeks. Yay.
Photo Friday: School
Pope St. Pius V Catholic School
6th grade homeroom 1999-2000
a.k.a. the year I figured out what I should be teaching
and how,
and what age group,
and where,
and most especially, why
a.k.a. the year I figured out what I should be teaching
and how,
and what age group,
and where,
and most especially, why
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Sick and tired of being sick and tired...
So many of you who know me in person know that I've been dealing with an aggravating progression of symptoms and a frustrating set of encounters with doctors. I won't go into details on most of this, but this is why I've been, well, preoccupied lately. Or a zombie. Whichever it appears to be. I feel like I'm moving through mud and not connecting to the rest of reality very well.
I went to a new doctor on Monday who looked at my chart and asked me, well, every question she asked me I could answer in the affirmative: are you cold or hot? (cold) Are your eyes dry? (yes) Are you tired all the time? (yes) Do you have muddled thinking or 'brain fog'? (yes). And so on. Everything she asked, lo, it was something else on the list of bizarre symptoms I've been having with increasing regularity and severity since Leo was born.
I'm very very mildly hypothyroid, and this was diagnosed in 2005 when Maeve was about 10 months old and I felt like this (but I don't think I felt this strongly like this, if that makes sense). An extreme low dose of levothyroxine and all was well. Then in 2007 I couldn't get pregnant and kept not getting pregnant...the doctor doubled the dose and I was pregnant with Leo in a month and a half.
And here I am again. The new doctor took a bunch of blood to look at the specifics, but she's reassured me that she treats patients, not blood test numbers. Which is good because on my level of levothyroxin, my TSH levels are very normal. But when I said this, she just shook her head. No, we'll be doubling your dosage and switching your medication to a different blend of hormone.
Then I mentioned that my grandmother took thyroid medication (when she was alive--my mom's mother, not the one I've been talking about lately). And my dad's sisters. Then she took a long look at me and asked if anyone had ever said the name "Hashimoto's Disease" to me. No one had, but she decided to test for thyroid antibodies as well. It's an auto-immune disease, like type I diabetes or lupus, but the focus of my stupid, stupid immune system is my thyroid. Super. I know, life could be worse. And maybe it isn't that. Nothing is for sure.
Test results were supposed to be in by today, but when I called the very very nice receptionist told me that sometimes it took a week--she reassured me that the doctor would call by Monday. And that's ok. I can wait, knowing that she took a look at me and not just my bloodwork. I'm not worried at all now--this will begin to work itself out. And maybe come 6 weeks from now my fingers won't hurt and my ankles won't hurt and the weird headaches will stop and I won't sleep 12 hours a day and still need a nap and I'll remember what I'm talking about and I'll lose some weight and I won't freeze to death this winter and all will be reasonably well. It was so nice to finally have a doctor who didn't downplay my symptoms and assume I was just lazy or stupid or depressed or whatever. Seriously.
But in strict accordance with my own neuroses, I'm not saying everything is fine and I'm so terribly happy with this brand new thing. I'm still holding my breath and not canceling the appointment with the gynecologist Janet recommended for the same symptoms and treatment. But I think I've found my way.
I went to a new doctor on Monday who looked at my chart and asked me, well, every question she asked me I could answer in the affirmative: are you cold or hot? (cold) Are your eyes dry? (yes) Are you tired all the time? (yes) Do you have muddled thinking or 'brain fog'? (yes). And so on. Everything she asked, lo, it was something else on the list of bizarre symptoms I've been having with increasing regularity and severity since Leo was born.
I'm very very mildly hypothyroid, and this was diagnosed in 2005 when Maeve was about 10 months old and I felt like this (but I don't think I felt this strongly like this, if that makes sense). An extreme low dose of levothyroxine and all was well. Then in 2007 I couldn't get pregnant and kept not getting pregnant...the doctor doubled the dose and I was pregnant with Leo in a month and a half.
And here I am again. The new doctor took a bunch of blood to look at the specifics, but she's reassured me that she treats patients, not blood test numbers. Which is good because on my level of levothyroxin, my TSH levels are very normal. But when I said this, she just shook her head. No, we'll be doubling your dosage and switching your medication to a different blend of hormone.
Then I mentioned that my grandmother took thyroid medication (when she was alive--my mom's mother, not the one I've been talking about lately). And my dad's sisters. Then she took a long look at me and asked if anyone had ever said the name "Hashimoto's Disease" to me. No one had, but she decided to test for thyroid antibodies as well. It's an auto-immune disease, like type I diabetes or lupus, but the focus of my stupid, stupid immune system is my thyroid. Super. I know, life could be worse. And maybe it isn't that. Nothing is for sure.
Test results were supposed to be in by today, but when I called the very very nice receptionist told me that sometimes it took a week--she reassured me that the doctor would call by Monday. And that's ok. I can wait, knowing that she took a look at me and not just my bloodwork. I'm not worried at all now--this will begin to work itself out. And maybe come 6 weeks from now my fingers won't hurt and my ankles won't hurt and the weird headaches will stop and I won't sleep 12 hours a day and still need a nap and I'll remember what I'm talking about and I'll lose some weight and I won't freeze to death this winter and all will be reasonably well. It was so nice to finally have a doctor who didn't downplay my symptoms and assume I was just lazy or stupid or depressed or whatever. Seriously.
But in strict accordance with my own neuroses, I'm not saying everything is fine and I'm so terribly happy with this brand new thing. I'm still holding my breath and not canceling the appointment with the gynecologist Janet recommended for the same symptoms and treatment. But I think I've found my way.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
If These Walls Could Talk...
From Mama Kat. My weekly writing exercise (as if I need an assignment...).
If these walls could talk, I would want them to tell me of the Murphy years. The Zieglers built it; the Woltjens might have been the first to occupy the house, but they weren't here very long. But the Murphy family owned this house for the majority of the 20th century, when this neighborhood had fallen into ruin and Mrs. Murphy used the house for income, as a rooming house. She survived three husbands in the time she lived in my house. First she was Mrs. Kimpler, then Mrs. Chapman--that's when she had the three kids--and then Mrs. Murphy. When she died, her daughter Mary inherited the place but let her alcoholic brother live in the basement.
I knew it had been a rooming house because Mary Chapman told me, in a roundabout way. When we came to look at the house, she was here in the living room. Took us around showing us this and that and how things had changed over time. She kept referring to the "former owner" and how he, or she, or they, had ran a rooming house. How they had chopped up the place and had a kitchen on the second floor and a bathroom in the butler's pantry. It wasn't until we closed on the house and got the abstract and property search that we realized Mary was referring to her mother when she said "former owner." I guess growing up in a rooming house changes your view of parents somewhat.
Our neighborhood is of the sort that has house tours. People from the county who live in ranch style houses or McMansions drive into the city and pay $10 or $15 depending on the tour and get a look at what these places were and what they've become. Of course, they are most interested in the German mansions in Compton Heights. Ours are far more simple, the middle class streetcar suburb style houses, solid and functional but not jaw-dropping gorgeous. My parents' house is a fabulous rehab, ingenious, really, and showed well two years ago, but most people come to see the "big houses". Even the most pristine south city foursquare cannot compare with the manor-style homes a few blocks north of me.
And mine can't compete at all. It's the same as all the others on the block, but rough. It's seen some abuse and neglect. If it were a child its teacher would have called DFS long ago and put it in foster care. But we try now (perhaps we're the foster parents in the end). Every time I cover up some mistake the "former owner" has done, I feel this place breathe a sigh of relief.
We've changed almost every room to the point that it would be unrecognizable to the former owners. The room where the computer sits is missing a wall, making it more of a loft above the stairs instead of a tiny front bedroom. The tiny back bedroom is now part of the much-improved bathroom. We've closed off doors and re-exposed clawfoot tubs. Rearranged the kitchen, finished the attic, reestablished the dining room, took out the stupid faux french doors. Repaired the pocket doors--the two we could repair--and took out all the wallpaper. Every day it's more my house and less Mrs. Murphy's.
But my bedroom door still has a deadbolt. The guest room door has a hole where the deadbolt used to be. The butler's pantry is still a bathroom, and we're going to keep it as one, although much improved (that's the next project). I think about this house and sometimes I smile and other times I shiver.
Once, on a house tour like I mentioned, the house across the street was being shown. I was a volunteer and checked off the tickets at the door. One woman asked me if I lived on the block, and I told her yes, and pointed across to my house. She shuddered. She'd lived in my house "When it was Mrs. Murphy's boarding house." She lived in the room where I'm sitting now, for about 6 months, with another girl. I know for a fact this room had no electricity when I moved in, so I assume it didn't when she lived here. I have a hard time seeing how two girls could have shared this room, but then she told me there were 8 other people living on the floor with her, all sharing one bathroom and a makeshift kitchen in the back room. Ten people spread across these three rooms. And she didn't know all their names.
If these walls could talk, indeed.
If these walls could talk, I would want them to tell me of the Murphy years. The Zieglers built it; the Woltjens might have been the first to occupy the house, but they weren't here very long. But the Murphy family owned this house for the majority of the 20th century, when this neighborhood had fallen into ruin and Mrs. Murphy used the house for income, as a rooming house. She survived three husbands in the time she lived in my house. First she was Mrs. Kimpler, then Mrs. Chapman--that's when she had the three kids--and then Mrs. Murphy. When she died, her daughter Mary inherited the place but let her alcoholic brother live in the basement.
I knew it had been a rooming house because Mary Chapman told me, in a roundabout way. When we came to look at the house, she was here in the living room. Took us around showing us this and that and how things had changed over time. She kept referring to the "former owner" and how he, or she, or they, had ran a rooming house. How they had chopped up the place and had a kitchen on the second floor and a bathroom in the butler's pantry. It wasn't until we closed on the house and got the abstract and property search that we realized Mary was referring to her mother when she said "former owner." I guess growing up in a rooming house changes your view of parents somewhat.
Our neighborhood is of the sort that has house tours. People from the county who live in ranch style houses or McMansions drive into the city and pay $10 or $15 depending on the tour and get a look at what these places were and what they've become. Of course, they are most interested in the German mansions in Compton Heights. Ours are far more simple, the middle class streetcar suburb style houses, solid and functional but not jaw-dropping gorgeous. My parents' house is a fabulous rehab, ingenious, really, and showed well two years ago, but most people come to see the "big houses". Even the most pristine south city foursquare cannot compare with the manor-style homes a few blocks north of me.
And mine can't compete at all. It's the same as all the others on the block, but rough. It's seen some abuse and neglect. If it were a child its teacher would have called DFS long ago and put it in foster care. But we try now (perhaps we're the foster parents in the end). Every time I cover up some mistake the "former owner" has done, I feel this place breathe a sigh of relief.
We've changed almost every room to the point that it would be unrecognizable to the former owners. The room where the computer sits is missing a wall, making it more of a loft above the stairs instead of a tiny front bedroom. The tiny back bedroom is now part of the much-improved bathroom. We've closed off doors and re-exposed clawfoot tubs. Rearranged the kitchen, finished the attic, reestablished the dining room, took out the stupid faux french doors. Repaired the pocket doors--the two we could repair--and took out all the wallpaper. Every day it's more my house and less Mrs. Murphy's.
But my bedroom door still has a deadbolt. The guest room door has a hole where the deadbolt used to be. The butler's pantry is still a bathroom, and we're going to keep it as one, although much improved (that's the next project). I think about this house and sometimes I smile and other times I shiver.
Once, on a house tour like I mentioned, the house across the street was being shown. I was a volunteer and checked off the tickets at the door. One woman asked me if I lived on the block, and I told her yes, and pointed across to my house. She shuddered. She'd lived in my house "When it was Mrs. Murphy's boarding house." She lived in the room where I'm sitting now, for about 6 months, with another girl. I know for a fact this room had no electricity when I moved in, so I assume it didn't when she lived here. I have a hard time seeing how two girls could have shared this room, but then she told me there were 8 other people living on the floor with her, all sharing one bathroom and a makeshift kitchen in the back room. Ten people spread across these three rooms. And she didn't know all their names.
If these walls could talk, indeed.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Sometimes it's ok
Yesterday I went to visit my grandmother in the nursing home. It's supposed to be a temporary situation, to get her strength back up and back to her house. I hate to be a naysayer, but somehow I don't see it happening. But maybe. She's surprised us before.
Once, she was mowing the lawn about 7 years ago, maybe not so long. She has a duplex out in the county, but still has an expansive back yard. She was mowing the lawn and realized her foot was wet, like she'd stepped in a marshy spot in the grass. She looked down and realized her leg was bleeding. Bleeding enough to fill her shoe with blood. She saw this and went back to the garage. Found an old sheet and ripped it into strips to use as bandages. Wrapped her leg and went back out to finish mowing the lawn. Put the lawnmower away and then drove herself to one of those emergency care center type places, where she got several stitches and real bandages.
She would have been, oh, 75 when she did this. She's not a pushover. My father tells a story of her once beating him with a broom while he beat up a guy with a table leg in their driveway. I don't remember the details, I think it involved road rage, although it wasn't called that back then. Two guys following my dad home, he was in high school. Etc. I don't know. She's a strong force, though. A will.
But she can't get enough breath behind the words to push them out right now. We sat with her in the little living room--besides the monastery in western Missouri, this was the best nursing home I'd been to--and I had to keep leaning forward to hear her. Her lower jaw was kind of shaky and my aunt next to me had to translate a lot of it. Kay is kind of no nonsense. All my aunts are.
I look at my aunt Kay, though, and she looks so much like my grandfather, I know what's coming for me in 25 years. I probably won't allow my hairdresser to take me that far blond (but maybe I will), but otherwise, I'm looking into some sort of future vision mirror. She was relaxed, but maybe a little too no-nonsense. My sister and my mom sat there with nervous smiles and looks of concern.
I nursed Leo and tried not to make any faces at all.
Penny got tired quickly and we took her back to her room. I can't tell if she was glad to see us or not. She's got that weird anti-negativity that I always assign to Jewish grandmothers but Irish might work just as well. Biting sarcasm and apparent disdain mixed with oh my god I love you all so much but just can't say it. Maybe I'm reading too much into her batting a hand at Leo and telling me his ears are too big. Or asking me how my "wildflowers" in the yard are doing (she knows I'm a bad gardener come the summer). I just can't believe, though, that she doesn't want to know us.
And I'm thick skinned enough, just enough, to not notice until later that someone else would have been insulted. God I hope I don't inherit this trait.
But we sat there and I thought about all the people who live in her head, and her head alone. The people we've never met that she visited on deathbeds and sick rooms and nursing homes when she had my father on her hip, pregnant with Patrick, with Paula and Rick trailing her holding onto the hem of her dress. Some day I'll be sitting in that wheelchair, or propped on the bed in this south city house or in some damned hospital, and there will be people only I know, who only live in my head. Like Penny or Edith or Odelia or Sarah or Art or Emma. Leo's daughter and her baby girl sitting there looking at me asking me, "But are they treating you all right?" or "My, what a view you have up here," or something else to pass the time nervously while my daughter-in-law hovers in the doorway wishing she were home monitoring the maid or doing the wash or whatever they'll be doing then.
And thinking this, it was ok. Maybe Penny will make it home. Maybe she's got a dozen more years left of bitching about the garden and giving too much advice about ink-pen stains on dress shirts. Or maybe I won't see her again. And it's ok.
God, this planet turns so quick.
Once, she was mowing the lawn about 7 years ago, maybe not so long. She has a duplex out in the county, but still has an expansive back yard. She was mowing the lawn and realized her foot was wet, like she'd stepped in a marshy spot in the grass. She looked down and realized her leg was bleeding. Bleeding enough to fill her shoe with blood. She saw this and went back to the garage. Found an old sheet and ripped it into strips to use as bandages. Wrapped her leg and went back out to finish mowing the lawn. Put the lawnmower away and then drove herself to one of those emergency care center type places, where she got several stitches and real bandages.
She would have been, oh, 75 when she did this. She's not a pushover. My father tells a story of her once beating him with a broom while he beat up a guy with a table leg in their driveway. I don't remember the details, I think it involved road rage, although it wasn't called that back then. Two guys following my dad home, he was in high school. Etc. I don't know. She's a strong force, though. A will.
But she can't get enough breath behind the words to push them out right now. We sat with her in the little living room--besides the monastery in western Missouri, this was the best nursing home I'd been to--and I had to keep leaning forward to hear her. Her lower jaw was kind of shaky and my aunt next to me had to translate a lot of it. Kay is kind of no nonsense. All my aunts are.
I look at my aunt Kay, though, and she looks so much like my grandfather, I know what's coming for me in 25 years. I probably won't allow my hairdresser to take me that far blond (but maybe I will), but otherwise, I'm looking into some sort of future vision mirror. She was relaxed, but maybe a little too no-nonsense. My sister and my mom sat there with nervous smiles and looks of concern.
I nursed Leo and tried not to make any faces at all.
Penny got tired quickly and we took her back to her room. I can't tell if she was glad to see us or not. She's got that weird anti-negativity that I always assign to Jewish grandmothers but Irish might work just as well. Biting sarcasm and apparent disdain mixed with oh my god I love you all so much but just can't say it. Maybe I'm reading too much into her batting a hand at Leo and telling me his ears are too big. Or asking me how my "wildflowers" in the yard are doing (she knows I'm a bad gardener come the summer). I just can't believe, though, that she doesn't want to know us.
And I'm thick skinned enough, just enough, to not notice until later that someone else would have been insulted. God I hope I don't inherit this trait.
But we sat there and I thought about all the people who live in her head, and her head alone. The people we've never met that she visited on deathbeds and sick rooms and nursing homes when she had my father on her hip, pregnant with Patrick, with Paula and Rick trailing her holding onto the hem of her dress. Some day I'll be sitting in that wheelchair, or propped on the bed in this south city house or in some damned hospital, and there will be people only I know, who only live in my head. Like Penny or Edith or Odelia or Sarah or Art or Emma. Leo's daughter and her baby girl sitting there looking at me asking me, "But are they treating you all right?" or "My, what a view you have up here," or something else to pass the time nervously while my daughter-in-law hovers in the doorway wishing she were home monitoring the maid or doing the wash or whatever they'll be doing then.
And thinking this, it was ok. Maybe Penny will make it home. Maybe she's got a dozen more years left of bitching about the garden and giving too much advice about ink-pen stains on dress shirts. Or maybe I won't see her again. And it's ok.
God, this planet turns so quick.
Ten on Tuesday: Ten Traits I Look For in a Romantic Interest
Well, since I've been married 13 years and been with Mike a total of 16 years, I don't know if I can answer this question honestly. Although I guess I can answer it as an 18 year old:
1. Does he read? If not, I'm not interested. Types of reading material more negotiable.
2. Does he have interesting interests that are different from mine? I want to do different things.
3. Does he have a long string of ex-girlfriends he talks bad about? Not interested.
4. Is his family nice? Necessity.
5. Does he drink a lot/smoke a lot/go to bars/strip clubs? Not interested.
6. Misogyny is right out. He has to like girls and not fear them or hate them.
7. Does he talk on and on and on about one topic, or stick any topic forever? Is he always right? Bleah.
8. Does he own more shoes/hair care products/sweaters than I do? Not interested.
9. Is he interested in things I like (the flip side of #2 above)? I'd prefer it that way.
10. No one I have to fix or thinks he needs to fix me.
Nowadays...I guess all those still fit, actually. It's helpful that I found someone who fit that description (or the antithesis, really, of most of it).
1. Does he read? If not, I'm not interested. Types of reading material more negotiable.
2. Does he have interesting interests that are different from mine? I want to do different things.
3. Does he have a long string of ex-girlfriends he talks bad about? Not interested.
4. Is his family nice? Necessity.
5. Does he drink a lot/smoke a lot/go to bars/strip clubs? Not interested.
6. Misogyny is right out. He has to like girls and not fear them or hate them.
7. Does he talk on and on and on about one topic, or stick any topic forever? Is he always right? Bleah.
8. Does he own more shoes/hair care products/sweaters than I do? Not interested.
9. Is he interested in things I like (the flip side of #2 above)? I'd prefer it that way.
10. No one I have to fix or thinks he needs to fix me.
Nowadays...I guess all those still fit, actually. It's helpful that I found someone who fit that description (or the antithesis, really, of most of it).
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Green Pumpkin Success
So I had this green pumpkin. It looked like a gigantic zucchini. When I cut it open, though, it was obviously a pumpkin, with the space for seeds (or to make into a jack-o-lantern). But no pumpkiny smell. It was really much more like a zucchini than a pumpkin in that department.
So I found a recipe on Emeril's site for a seafood and green pumpkin casserole. Boil the pumpkin in strips and strain out the water. Saute with salt and pepper, onion and a gigantic amount of garlic. Add shrimp and crab, green onion and parsley. Dump into a casserole dish. Top with cheese. Broil until the cheese starts to brown.
Stick. Your. Face. In.
In other garden news, I suddenly have ten thousand green tomatoes. The bindweed/morning glory that is taking over isn't choking them out. In fact, it's kind of supporting them. Weird. I also left the door open on the cage last night and this afternoon when I went out there, the place was filled with bumblebees. So tell me--I thought tomatoes were self/wind pollinating. Was I wrong? Is that why my tomato harvest has gotten progressively smaller as the years have gone by?
Since the squirrel infestation has been taken care of by the removal of the mulberry and sycamore trees in the alley, along with a fat and sassy pair of red-tailed hawks in the park (I'm sure they've helped), perhaps I need to just leave the gate open permanently. I'm not taking the cage down--the squirrels will reappear the moment I do that, I just know it. But I think I'm going to let the bees at it. Dang it.
So I found a recipe on Emeril's site for a seafood and green pumpkin casserole. Boil the pumpkin in strips and strain out the water. Saute with salt and pepper, onion and a gigantic amount of garlic. Add shrimp and crab, green onion and parsley. Dump into a casserole dish. Top with cheese. Broil until the cheese starts to brown.
Stick. Your. Face. In.
In other garden news, I suddenly have ten thousand green tomatoes. The bindweed/morning glory that is taking over isn't choking them out. In fact, it's kind of supporting them. Weird. I also left the door open on the cage last night and this afternoon when I went out there, the place was filled with bumblebees. So tell me--I thought tomatoes were self/wind pollinating. Was I wrong? Is that why my tomato harvest has gotten progressively smaller as the years have gone by?
Since the squirrel infestation has been taken care of by the removal of the mulberry and sycamore trees in the alley, along with a fat and sassy pair of red-tailed hawks in the park (I'm sure they've helped), perhaps I need to just leave the gate open permanently. I'm not taking the cage down--the squirrels will reappear the moment I do that, I just know it. But I think I'm going to let the bees at it. Dang it.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Garden Discovery
I've discovered a few things today whilst attempting to reclaim my garden after a month of neglect. Honestly, it was hard to get anything done this summer in the yard, and when I would look back at the garden, I would be overcome with discouragement. I just couldn't bring myself to fix the mess and therefore it made a bigger mess. But I promised myself that I'd do a half hour of work a day out there this week, starting yesterday, to see how things improved. So yesterday I mowed and cleaned out the pool and filled it.
Today I harvested the garlic I could find before it got too dark to hunt. And one of the things I discovered is that garlic harvested after the stems dry doesn't hold together. I have a basket full of garlic cloves. No bulbs. So I'm going to dehydrate a bunch of them so they don't go to waste (a lot of last year's harvest went to waste over the winter. I don't know why they didn't keep this past year).
The other thing I worked on was the weird zucchini plant that has taken over the yard. I hacked back a bunch of it, just so I could get back to the compost. And I realized the plant went over my fence and into the parking pad where the tree is all cut up and drying into firewood. I went around through the gate to see about gathering up more of the vine when I saw it.
The huge pumpkin sitting in the mulch next to the firewood.
It's not a zucchini vine. It's a pumpkin vine. That makes the "zucchini" I thought I'd picked off the dang thing make more sense. It seemed so alarmingly large (in such a short time). Now I know why. Because it was halfway to this gigantic orange pumpkin. Like a foot and a half tall and 8 inches in diameter (at least). I don't have any experience with growing jack-o-lantern pumpkins. Pie pumpkins do not look like this. Of course, foolish me for thinking the vine was zucchini in the first place. But still. So The orange pumpkin snapped off the vine easily and I took it inside to my stunned family. And left the rest of the vine be until I was sure it wasn't going to produce any more.
Huh. Any ideas about what to do with a green pumpkin the size of a throw pillow?
Today I harvested the garlic I could find before it got too dark to hunt. And one of the things I discovered is that garlic harvested after the stems dry doesn't hold together. I have a basket full of garlic cloves. No bulbs. So I'm going to dehydrate a bunch of them so they don't go to waste (a lot of last year's harvest went to waste over the winter. I don't know why they didn't keep this past year).
The other thing I worked on was the weird zucchini plant that has taken over the yard. I hacked back a bunch of it, just so I could get back to the compost. And I realized the plant went over my fence and into the parking pad where the tree is all cut up and drying into firewood. I went around through the gate to see about gathering up more of the vine when I saw it.
The huge pumpkin sitting in the mulch next to the firewood.
It's not a zucchini vine. It's a pumpkin vine. That makes the "zucchini" I thought I'd picked off the dang thing make more sense. It seemed so alarmingly large (in such a short time). Now I know why. Because it was halfway to this gigantic orange pumpkin. Like a foot and a half tall and 8 inches in diameter (at least). I don't have any experience with growing jack-o-lantern pumpkins. Pie pumpkins do not look like this. Of course, foolish me for thinking the vine was zucchini in the first place. But still. So The orange pumpkin snapped off the vine easily and I took it inside to my stunned family. And left the rest of the vine be until I was sure it wasn't going to produce any more.
Huh. Any ideas about what to do with a green pumpkin the size of a throw pillow?
My Firsts
From Kaylen. I needed a time waster while I nursed the baby and waited for Mike to return from Home Depot (kitchen work).
Who was your FIRST prom date? That would be Johnny.
Do you still talk to your FIRST love? No. He hates me with the burning passion of a thousand suns.
What was your FIRST job? I worked for one night at the local theater. Then I got a job at Wal*Mart. Which was actually a step up, believe it or don't.
What was your FIRST car? 1974 Triumph Spitfire. I miss it, but only when I forget to remember what a pain in the ass it could be.
Who was the FIRST person to text you today? Text? What's that? Sometimes Bevin texts me, but not really that often.
Who is the FIRST person you thought of this morning? My grandmother, the one who died in 1993. She showed up in a dream. Weird.
Who was your FIRST grade teacher? Mrs. Smallwood. I have a feeling she didn't like me.
Where did you go on your FIRST ride on an airplane? California.
Who was your FIRST best friend & do you still talk? Complicated. The answer is no, but it could be several people--Misdy comes to mind, but so does Ariel. I do still talk to Marita, and she was from 6th grade.
Where was your FIRST sleep over? I think Maureen's house? I can't remember her name. Kindergarten.
Who was the first person you talked to today? Mike.
Whose wedding were you in the FIRST time? Carlos and Missy. I stood on the groom's side. But still had to wear the weird dress.
What was the FIRST thing you did this morning? Nursed that dang baby!
What was the FIRST concert you ever went to? U2 Joshua Tree.
FIRST tattoo? I do not have a tattoo. If I did, it would be the words "Perfect, just like a swan" in courier typeface. But I don't. Or maybe I'd go with something Benedictine. Hmm. An oak leaf? This is why I don't have a tattoo.
FIRST piercing? Ears, I was 10.
FIRST foreign country you went to? Does Texas count? Otherwise, I haven't left the country.
FIRST movie you remember seeing? I swear I remember Fantasia. My parents say there's no way I could remember. So I guess I don't remember.
When was your FIRST detention? I skipped French III more than I went that first semester. Finally Madame Baker was done with that maird.
Who was your FIRST roommate? Stephanie. We lasted a semester. I'm not easy to get along with, and when you're living in a shoebox? Not so great.
What was the first sport that you were involved in? Soccer.
What were the first lessons you ever took? Flute.
What is the first thing you do when you get home? Hang up my keys lest I lose them forever.
When was your first kiss 'that you would count'? Geez. I guess 8th grade.
In what grade did you first feel really confident? This went back and forth. 7th grade was a good year, the first half of 9th, and senior year.
When did you receive your first "F" in school? Midterms junior year of college. It was really in Incomplete, but she wrote it down as an F. I got an A in the course in the end. She was dim.
First important event / activity from which you were cut? I think I always quit before I was cut. Well, I did run for county clerk at Texas Girls State but lost the election.
What is your first memorable family vacation? Southern California. I think I was 7.
What was your first drink? At 10, Misdy and I got into the bourbon slush...
What was your first trip to the ER? Not sure, but I think my parents took me when I was 5 and had bullous myringitis (that would be an ear infection, a special one). After that, I was a sophomore and broke my collar bone.
Where was your first apartment? On South Grand. It was nasty.
Did you marry the FIRST person to ask for your hand in marriage? No.
Who was your FIRST prom date? That would be Johnny.
Do you still talk to your FIRST love? No. He hates me with the burning passion of a thousand suns.
What was your FIRST job? I worked for one night at the local theater. Then I got a job at Wal*Mart. Which was actually a step up, believe it or don't.
What was your FIRST car? 1974 Triumph Spitfire. I miss it, but only when I forget to remember what a pain in the ass it could be.
Who was the FIRST person to text you today? Text? What's that? Sometimes Bevin texts me, but not really that often.
Who is the FIRST person you thought of this morning? My grandmother, the one who died in 1993. She showed up in a dream. Weird.
Who was your FIRST grade teacher? Mrs. Smallwood. I have a feeling she didn't like me.
Where did you go on your FIRST ride on an airplane? California.
Who was your FIRST best friend & do you still talk? Complicated. The answer is no, but it could be several people--Misdy comes to mind, but so does Ariel. I do still talk to Marita, and she was from 6th grade.
Where was your FIRST sleep over? I think Maureen's house? I can't remember her name. Kindergarten.
Who was the first person you talked to today? Mike.
Whose wedding were you in the FIRST time? Carlos and Missy. I stood on the groom's side. But still had to wear the weird dress.
What was the FIRST thing you did this morning? Nursed that dang baby!
What was the FIRST concert you ever went to? U2 Joshua Tree.
FIRST tattoo? I do not have a tattoo. If I did, it would be the words "Perfect, just like a swan" in courier typeface. But I don't. Or maybe I'd go with something Benedictine. Hmm. An oak leaf? This is why I don't have a tattoo.
FIRST piercing? Ears, I was 10.
FIRST foreign country you went to? Does Texas count? Otherwise, I haven't left the country.
FIRST movie you remember seeing? I swear I remember Fantasia. My parents say there's no way I could remember. So I guess I don't remember.
When was your FIRST detention? I skipped French III more than I went that first semester. Finally Madame Baker was done with that maird.
Who was your FIRST roommate? Stephanie. We lasted a semester. I'm not easy to get along with, and when you're living in a shoebox? Not so great.
What was the first sport that you were involved in? Soccer.
What were the first lessons you ever took? Flute.
What is the first thing you do when you get home? Hang up my keys lest I lose them forever.
When was your first kiss 'that you would count'? Geez. I guess 8th grade.
In what grade did you first feel really confident? This went back and forth. 7th grade was a good year, the first half of 9th, and senior year.
When did you receive your first "F" in school? Midterms junior year of college. It was really in Incomplete, but she wrote it down as an F. I got an A in the course in the end. She was dim.
First important event / activity from which you were cut? I think I always quit before I was cut. Well, I did run for county clerk at Texas Girls State but lost the election.
What is your first memorable family vacation? Southern California. I think I was 7.
What was your first drink? At 10, Misdy and I got into the bourbon slush...
What was your first trip to the ER? Not sure, but I think my parents took me when I was 5 and had bullous myringitis (that would be an ear infection, a special one). After that, I was a sophomore and broke my collar bone.
Where was your first apartment? On South Grand. It was nasty.
Did you marry the FIRST person to ask for your hand in marriage? No.
Friday, August 14, 2009
In which Bridgett takes the girls to Mary Poppins
Rob called earlier this week. He had tickets for Mary Poppins he couldn't use. Since he knows folks at metrotix, I was able to purchase a third to match his pair. So this evening Sophia, Maeve, and I went to see Mary Poppins.
My dad works in the next door building (the Humboldt building?) and gave me his parking pass. So for the price of a single orchestra ticket, the three of us parked next to the Fox and saw the show. I'm reminded of the poem about strawberries:
As I left in the van this evening, I turned to Mike, said goodbye, and told him, "You have chosen the better part!" He is usually the one to do these things--he takes kids to baseball games, for instance, and I stay home and relax in the quiet. But tonight he did that and ten minutes into the first act, I envied him. But by intermission, I was so impressed by the whole dang thing, I felt lucky I got to go for a change.
My dad works in the next door building (the Humboldt building?) and gave me his parking pass. So for the price of a single orchestra ticket, the three of us parked next to the Fox and saw the show. I'm reminded of the poem about strawberries:
Marcia and I went over the curve,I wasn't planning to see this show. I was thinking "oh, seen that movie" and was leaving it at that. But it was different from the movie. Sort of a mesh of movie and book. Some of the same songs as the Disney version, but in different order and involving different scenes. But it was really good. Magical, really. Perfect for the under 10 crowd. Maeve was perhaps a little young, and with no live theater experience, she was antsy (and kept asking me, "are those REAL people up there?"). But she was so into every song and clapped after each one.
Eating our way down
Jewels of strawberries we didn't deserve,
Eating our way down.
As I left in the van this evening, I turned to Mike, said goodbye, and told him, "You have chosen the better part!" He is usually the one to do these things--he takes kids to baseball games, for instance, and I stay home and relax in the quiet. But tonight he did that and ten minutes into the first act, I envied him. But by intermission, I was so impressed by the whole dang thing, I felt lucky I got to go for a change.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Ten Open Memos to People or Entities Unlikely to Respond
From Mama Kat's writers workshop (part two--God Moments was part one). The prompt is "Ten things you would say to ten different people if you had the chutzpah to do so" but of course, I do have the chutzpah (I'm a bit of a broad) and so that's really not the appropriate prompt for someone like me. But then one writer wrote hers as notes to groups or people she doesn't know. Now, THIS I can do.
1. Dear KLOU: I know you want to be like WARH "The Arch" but they got all the good snappy lines already. You sound like middle aged parents trying to use slang. And I miss the real oldies you used to play, that I'd turn to you when I was done with that other station.
2.Dear "On Point" and WBUR: Please stop filling in the ends of sentences of folks who call in. You are no Dick Gordon. And as for you, WBUR, firing Dick Gordon was unforgivable. I hate the new show. I know it's not new anymore. I still hate it.
3. Dear K Hits 96: I want to like you. I just can't. Sometimes you're good, but the "never repeat a song for a whole week" policy means you have to dig a little deep into crappy old 70s music to make it through Friday afternoon. There are times I'd like to hear that Fleetwood Mac song again before I turn 35. Or maybe a Grateful Dead song that doesn't suck.
Moving on from radio...
4. Dear Fox and HBO: My irritation with your programming decisions knows no bounds. Firefly? Carnivale? My favorite shows and you killed them. It's not like you killed a relative or a pet, but definitely more upsetting than if you'd killed a houseplant. Eliminating Firefly opened the door for that insipid movie. And Carnivale? Does Jonesy live? We don't know. We can't know. Because you killed the show. You are idiots.
5. Dear City of St. Louis Parking Division: Thank you for cleaning my street on the second Monday and the second Tuesday (one side at a time). But your signs are faded and old with no printing except a little SECOND sticker covering up the old words "odd dated" or "even dated". I have to inform all the new residents as to the policy so they don't get the $10 ticket once a month. Also, just a thought: when the street is cleaned, the restriction should be lifted. No parking from 12 to 3:30 is fine, but if it's 1:45 and the street cleaner is done, WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO PARK IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSES AGAIN.
6. Dear Volunteer Zucchini Plant Growing Out of my Compost Heap: I welcomed you. I was curious what might happen. What happened was you spread over a third of my backyard, flowered all over the place, and gave me one zucchini. One. All this for ONE ZUCCHINI?
7. Dear Girl Scouts of Eastern Missouri: I love being a leader and I love my troop. But I really need you to get your act together. Seriously. I need to be able to test out of those damned classes because you know what? I know how to camp. And you know what else? Most of those classes are useless. And I need you to not change the format during my daughters' time in girl scouts. This "journey" idea? A bad one. Stick with the badges. Don't dumb it down any further than it already is. I just want to camp and do some crafts and go on some field trips with these girls. I want to bring another dimension, another group of adults, into their lives. And I frankly don't need much help from you. Except WHEN I DO, LIKE WHEN A MOM BUYS 1000 BOXES OF COOKIES AND YOU DON'T GIVE ME THE WHOLE STORY ON WHAT WE CAN DO ABOUT IT. Then it's all crickets and eerie silence from your end. And one last thing. If you're going to make me jump through hoops and learn to tap dance, could you at least put everything I need to know on your website? Or perhaps in a concise easy to read booklet? You are high on three letter abbreviation titles and focus group approvals. And it's starting to suck.
8. Dear Archdiocese: Money is fungible. That's all I'm sayin'. Figure out the rest on your own.
9. Dear My Daughters' School: You've made some good steps in the right direction. I am so happy about these steps. And I love the people you've hired. Please don't screw up now. We're counting on you. And you've screwed up before. Oh, also, get your kindergarten plan together or Maeve ain't coming.
10. Dear Irish Dance Competitions: In what world do you live in, where "Irish" means "tanned to a deep bronze"? I know, not all Irish dancers are Irish. But what's with the dark foundation make up? Why is this part of it? Those girls, those older girls? They're like 16 up there, but their faces with the make up? They look like 45 year old truck stop waitresses trying to cover up a lifetime of mistakes. The little girls without the makeup are so cute. I have no problem with stage makeup, I know it helps bring out the eyes and so forth. But does it have to look so...staged? So drag queen?
1. Dear KLOU: I know you want to be like WARH "The Arch" but they got all the good snappy lines already. You sound like middle aged parents trying to use slang. And I miss the real oldies you used to play, that I'd turn to you when I was done with that other station.
2.Dear "On Point" and WBUR: Please stop filling in the ends of sentences of folks who call in. You are no Dick Gordon. And as for you, WBUR, firing Dick Gordon was unforgivable. I hate the new show. I know it's not new anymore. I still hate it.
3. Dear K Hits 96: I want to like you. I just can't. Sometimes you're good, but the "never repeat a song for a whole week" policy means you have to dig a little deep into crappy old 70s music to make it through Friday afternoon. There are times I'd like to hear that Fleetwood Mac song again before I turn 35. Or maybe a Grateful Dead song that doesn't suck.
Moving on from radio...
4. Dear Fox and HBO: My irritation with your programming decisions knows no bounds. Firefly? Carnivale? My favorite shows and you killed them. It's not like you killed a relative or a pet, but definitely more upsetting than if you'd killed a houseplant. Eliminating Firefly opened the door for that insipid movie. And Carnivale? Does Jonesy live? We don't know. We can't know. Because you killed the show. You are idiots.
5. Dear City of St. Louis Parking Division: Thank you for cleaning my street on the second Monday and the second Tuesday (one side at a time). But your signs are faded and old with no printing except a little SECOND sticker covering up the old words "odd dated" or "even dated". I have to inform all the new residents as to the policy so they don't get the $10 ticket once a month. Also, just a thought: when the street is cleaned, the restriction should be lifted. No parking from 12 to 3:30 is fine, but if it's 1:45 and the street cleaner is done, WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO PARK IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSES AGAIN.
6. Dear Volunteer Zucchini Plant Growing Out of my Compost Heap: I welcomed you. I was curious what might happen. What happened was you spread over a third of my backyard, flowered all over the place, and gave me one zucchini. One. All this for ONE ZUCCHINI?
7. Dear Girl Scouts of Eastern Missouri: I love being a leader and I love my troop. But I really need you to get your act together. Seriously. I need to be able to test out of those damned classes because you know what? I know how to camp. And you know what else? Most of those classes are useless. And I need you to not change the format during my daughters' time in girl scouts. This "journey" idea? A bad one. Stick with the badges. Don't dumb it down any further than it already is. I just want to camp and do some crafts and go on some field trips with these girls. I want to bring another dimension, another group of adults, into their lives. And I frankly don't need much help from you. Except WHEN I DO, LIKE WHEN A MOM BUYS 1000 BOXES OF COOKIES AND YOU DON'T GIVE ME THE WHOLE STORY ON WHAT WE CAN DO ABOUT IT. Then it's all crickets and eerie silence from your end. And one last thing. If you're going to make me jump through hoops and learn to tap dance, could you at least put everything I need to know on your website? Or perhaps in a concise easy to read booklet? You are high on three letter abbreviation titles and focus group approvals. And it's starting to suck.
8. Dear Archdiocese: Money is fungible. That's all I'm sayin'. Figure out the rest on your own.
9. Dear My Daughters' School: You've made some good steps in the right direction. I am so happy about these steps. And I love the people you've hired. Please don't screw up now. We're counting on you. And you've screwed up before. Oh, also, get your kindergarten plan together or Maeve ain't coming.
10. Dear Irish Dance Competitions: In what world do you live in, where "Irish" means "tanned to a deep bronze"? I know, not all Irish dancers are Irish. But what's with the dark foundation make up? Why is this part of it? Those girls, those older girls? They're like 16 up there, but their faces with the make up? They look like 45 year old truck stop waitresses trying to cover up a lifetime of mistakes. The little girls without the makeup are so cute. I have no problem with stage makeup, I know it helps bring out the eyes and so forth. But does it have to look so...staged? So drag queen?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
What I Learned From Making Pickles
Things in life aren't always exact. Or accurate. Or even in the ballpark.
Most recipes, whether for food, disaster, or happiness, are really processes instead of recipes.
There are many different "gateway" drugs.
Sometimes having to share things is better than everyone having her own set.
Even if you are the local expert, you aren't.
Never say no to free produce.
Some rules are mystifying and seem to have no consequences when broken.
Some rules are mystifying--until they have consequences when broken.
Producing things is a satisfying experience.
A seven month old will only entertain himself for so long.
Children are intrigued by adult handwork but it is wise not to burn them out.
Interchangeable parts are ingenious.
It is good to try new things and to make a process, or a recipe, one's own.
God Moments
Back in Summer '06, the lights went out here and everywhere else near here. Freak storm, all the trees went down, the power went out. Later in this saga, we got desperate and stayed with Mary and Heidi, but the first night, Mike stayed at my parents' house to ward off would-be looters (there were none) and I stayed in our house with the girls. I read Bake and Be Blessed by Fr. Dominic Garramone. I read the whole thing in one night, by flashlight, and at the end of it, knew I was going to find an oblate program.
But that's not the "God Moment" I'm talking about. In that book, he writes about the examen, which is a daily (nightly) practice of looking over your day. Not the same thing as an examination of conscience, which is a scrutiny of yourself, your actions, thoughts, inactions, sin, etc. More of an examination of God in your life. Where was God in your life today? He uses the story from WWII of an orphanage in France. The children there were extremely agitated, obviously, especially at night time. One of the workers came up with a plan to give the children bread at bedtime. The children could eat it right then, or save it if they wanted. The feeling, or belief, they were trying to give the children was you were fed today, and you will be fed tomorrow. The point of the examen is to see those bread moments throughout your day so you can see more of them tomorrow.
I have lots of these moments, times when I realize "this is important" and later look back and confirm that, yes, that was a pivotal moment. God was in the details. Something like that. One I especially like to retell involves our trip later that same year, out to California and back. Mike had never driven in the mountains before, and burned up our brakes at some point--by the time we were leaving Yosemite, they weren't working pretty much at all. That was a horrible downhill slide. At one point, we pulled over to where this group of construction workers were taking a break, and Mike asked them where we might go to get the car looked at, because on the map, it looked like we'd have to go all the way to Fresno. No, they told us, go to Oakhurst. Even specifics: there's a vet clinic, and a barbecue place, and right after that, Yosemite Smog. We finally make it down into Oakhurst, dropping about 4000 feet in those 16 miles. We see Sweetwater Steakhouse and a vet clinic. We turn left, and see a sort-of garage, no real signage except for a banner reading “All-Auto Smog”, surrounded by a chain link fence. This is the real deal. I have this sinking feeling. We are trapped in this crappy town and will have to sell one of our children to get the repairs done on the car.
Mike gets out and I stay with sleeping Maeve and whining Sophia. At that very moment, a Carquest car parts truck pulls up. A balding burnt-by-the-sun Californian in his 40s or 50s steps out. “Are you looking for John?” he asks us. Mike explains the situation.
“Oh, no, John's on vacation. On a cruise in Alaska. Gordon's doing a little work—were you looking to get it done right away?” Mike explains again. Carquest guy takes out his cell phone and calls his store. Asks his dispatcher to call all the mechanics around town, see if they can find someone to do a fast brake job for a guy on vacation. The office calls back. Big John isn't answering his phone (sometimes he leaves early) but Little Joe can get us in tomorrow morning. Little Joe. Carquest guy tells us he'll take us over to Little Joe's if we'd like.
"Hi, I'm Mike Wissinger," Mike introduces himself.
"Eddie Gilmore," is the reply.
Little Joe's is just three properties away. We pull in, and it's also a Hertz rental place. I tell Mike that we could rent a car, continue to Sequoia/Kings Canyon as normal, and it would only be a 45 minute detour tomorrow to pick up the van. He goes to find out what's going on. Eddie is still with us, and he introduces Mike to Little Joe and tells him, on the side, that this guy is reliable—and he delivers to all the mechanics in the area, he could tell us stories. We can't believe our good fortune mixed with bad luck.
But the Hertz gal on the same property, but run by a separate family, doesn't have any cars. Eddie says he'll run down the road and check with Enterprise. Mike goes into the Little Joe office and fills out paperwork. Little Joe's wife, who also works as his secretary, walks over to the Hertz office to see if they can work something out. Hertz Lady says they physically have two cars, but they haven't been vacuumed, washed, or had an oil change recently. But they chat and Hertz Lady waives the maintenance when she hears both our situation and that it's only one day. When Eddie gets back, Mike thanks him for his time, and Eddie tells us that Hertz is a better idea than the local Enterprise anyway. Cheaper and easier to deal with. You know, small town knowledge we'd never have, right there in a white pick up truck. Eddie goes back to work, and we get a super-cheap rental car out of the whole situation.
Little Joe tells us he's got our car as number one for tomorrow morning. We consolidate our bags and hop on in the small, but serviceable, four-door chameleon car. We now have protective coloration: California plates. We stop at a gas station in town and fill up. Mike's phone rings, and it's Hertz Lady calling back. Could we check the side door pocket and see if a license fell down there? Indeed, I find a California license for a woman from Mariposa. We drive back down the road to Little Joe's and deliver it. On our way back out of town, with McDonald's for the girls and a vitamin water for me, I notice that the barbecue place and veterinarian combo actually repeats itself later in the town—and this one actually is a white stand alone building as originally described. And the car repair shop right behind it is actually Yosemite Smog.
So we were at the wrong mechanic station when the delivery guy from Carquest pulled in behind us for no delivery since John was out of town and Gordon was only thre working on his own boat – not doing business. And Eddie the Carquest guy took time out of his day to find us a mechanic (since he knew them all), reassure us that the one we got was decent, and hunt down a rental car for us. If we'd gone to Yosemite Smog, Eddie the Carquest guy would not have been there. He was at John's closed-for-vacation shop.
And when I was watching the correct barbecue place, veterinarian, and mechanic go past out Mike's window, I had one of those moments. Call it good fortune, call it creepy coincidence, or call it grace. We were at the wrong place and that's what made it all work out for us.
Little Joe's mechanic Duane called us before we were in Fresno. He'd already checked out the van, to see what he might need to order to fix it tomorrow. The right rear brake shoe was disintegrated. This teaches me two things: a) don't rely on your brakes coming down out of the mountains (instead, switch into lower gears and let your engine slow you down—we figured out how useful this was a bit too late but still in time for more mountain driving on the way home), and b) trust that at least when I'm with Mike, all will be well. I mean, talk about someone who falls in s**t and comes out smelling like a rose. If I'd been the one trying to do the talking in this situation, we'd probably be at the Oakhurst Comfort Inn with two grumpy kids and no car for two days instead of lying in bed at John Muir Lodge under a handstitched quilt, the full moon rising above the conifer trees all around us, the German Harley riders playing cards on the front porch, and the sound of the fan in the window lulling babies to sleep. Ah, California.
But that's not the "God Moment" I'm talking about. In that book, he writes about the examen, which is a daily (nightly) practice of looking over your day. Not the same thing as an examination of conscience, which is a scrutiny of yourself, your actions, thoughts, inactions, sin, etc. More of an examination of God in your life. Where was God in your life today? He uses the story from WWII of an orphanage in France. The children there were extremely agitated, obviously, especially at night time. One of the workers came up with a plan to give the children bread at bedtime. The children could eat it right then, or save it if they wanted. The feeling, or belief, they were trying to give the children was you were fed today, and you will be fed tomorrow. The point of the examen is to see those bread moments throughout your day so you can see more of them tomorrow.
I have lots of these moments, times when I realize "this is important" and later look back and confirm that, yes, that was a pivotal moment. God was in the details. Something like that. One I especially like to retell involves our trip later that same year, out to California and back. Mike had never driven in the mountains before, and burned up our brakes at some point--by the time we were leaving Yosemite, they weren't working pretty much at all. That was a horrible downhill slide. At one point, we pulled over to where this group of construction workers were taking a break, and Mike asked them where we might go to get the car looked at, because on the map, it looked like we'd have to go all the way to Fresno. No, they told us, go to Oakhurst. Even specifics: there's a vet clinic, and a barbecue place, and right after that, Yosemite Smog. We finally make it down into Oakhurst, dropping about 4000 feet in those 16 miles. We see Sweetwater Steakhouse and a vet clinic. We turn left, and see a sort-of garage, no real signage except for a banner reading “All-Auto Smog”, surrounded by a chain link fence. This is the real deal. I have this sinking feeling. We are trapped in this crappy town and will have to sell one of our children to get the repairs done on the car.
Mike gets out and I stay with sleeping Maeve and whining Sophia. At that very moment, a Carquest car parts truck pulls up. A balding burnt-by-the-sun Californian in his 40s or 50s steps out. “Are you looking for John?” he asks us. Mike explains the situation.
“Oh, no, John's on vacation. On a cruise in Alaska. Gordon's doing a little work—were you looking to get it done right away?” Mike explains again. Carquest guy takes out his cell phone and calls his store. Asks his dispatcher to call all the mechanics around town, see if they can find someone to do a fast brake job for a guy on vacation. The office calls back. Big John isn't answering his phone (sometimes he leaves early) but Little Joe can get us in tomorrow morning. Little Joe. Carquest guy tells us he'll take us over to Little Joe's if we'd like.
"Hi, I'm Mike Wissinger," Mike introduces himself.
"Eddie Gilmore," is the reply.
Little Joe's is just three properties away. We pull in, and it's also a Hertz rental place. I tell Mike that we could rent a car, continue to Sequoia/Kings Canyon as normal, and it would only be a 45 minute detour tomorrow to pick up the van. He goes to find out what's going on. Eddie is still with us, and he introduces Mike to Little Joe and tells him, on the side, that this guy is reliable—and he delivers to all the mechanics in the area, he could tell us stories. We can't believe our good fortune mixed with bad luck.
But the Hertz gal on the same property, but run by a separate family, doesn't have any cars. Eddie says he'll run down the road and check with Enterprise. Mike goes into the Little Joe office and fills out paperwork. Little Joe's wife, who also works as his secretary, walks over to the Hertz office to see if they can work something out. Hertz Lady says they physically have two cars, but they haven't been vacuumed, washed, or had an oil change recently. But they chat and Hertz Lady waives the maintenance when she hears both our situation and that it's only one day. When Eddie gets back, Mike thanks him for his time, and Eddie tells us that Hertz is a better idea than the local Enterprise anyway. Cheaper and easier to deal with. You know, small town knowledge we'd never have, right there in a white pick up truck. Eddie goes back to work, and we get a super-cheap rental car out of the whole situation.
Little Joe tells us he's got our car as number one for tomorrow morning. We consolidate our bags and hop on in the small, but serviceable, four-door chameleon car. We now have protective coloration: California plates. We stop at a gas station in town and fill up. Mike's phone rings, and it's Hertz Lady calling back. Could we check the side door pocket and see if a license fell down there? Indeed, I find a California license for a woman from Mariposa. We drive back down the road to Little Joe's and deliver it. On our way back out of town, with McDonald's for the girls and a vitamin water for me, I notice that the barbecue place and veterinarian combo actually repeats itself later in the town—and this one actually is a white stand alone building as originally described. And the car repair shop right behind it is actually Yosemite Smog.
So we were at the wrong mechanic station when the delivery guy from Carquest pulled in behind us for no delivery since John was out of town and Gordon was only thre working on his own boat – not doing business. And Eddie the Carquest guy took time out of his day to find us a mechanic (since he knew them all), reassure us that the one we got was decent, and hunt down a rental car for us. If we'd gone to Yosemite Smog, Eddie the Carquest guy would not have been there. He was at John's closed-for-vacation shop.
And when I was watching the correct barbecue place, veterinarian, and mechanic go past out Mike's window, I had one of those moments. Call it good fortune, call it creepy coincidence, or call it grace. We were at the wrong place and that's what made it all work out for us.
Little Joe's mechanic Duane called us before we were in Fresno. He'd already checked out the van, to see what he might need to order to fix it tomorrow. The right rear brake shoe was disintegrated. This teaches me two things: a) don't rely on your brakes coming down out of the mountains (instead, switch into lower gears and let your engine slow you down—we figured out how useful this was a bit too late but still in time for more mountain driving on the way home), and b) trust that at least when I'm with Mike, all will be well. I mean, talk about someone who falls in s**t and comes out smelling like a rose. If I'd been the one trying to do the talking in this situation, we'd probably be at the Oakhurst Comfort Inn with two grumpy kids and no car for two days instead of lying in bed at John Muir Lodge under a handstitched quilt, the full moon rising above the conifer trees all around us, the German Harley riders playing cards on the front porch, and the sound of the fan in the window lulling babies to sleep. Ah, California.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Police Action on My Street
Sunday night, we got home from visiting Pete and Kaylen's awesome apartment and there were 5 police cars on our block. Huh. No lights on, just kind of hanging out. Eric was walking up towards his house and Mike stopped him. Seems there was some guy on the block who decided to lie down between his house and the house next door. On the concrete. And then they chased him away and he came back around through the alley and broke into a house down by the corner. Eric described him as sweaty drunk white guy. Probably high--he was belligerent as well. They caught him staggering down Grand.
Eh. No big thing.
This afternoon after pickling with Mary, we made the kids a picnic and walked outside to find two cop cars sitting out front. I thought, "what, more drunk guys?" but didn't approach them. I went in to get the rest of lunch for my girls and when I came out, Maeve was introducing herself to the guys in one car.
Kids played, ate, ran up and down. Maeve flirted with the officers a bit. Popsicles came out. The neighbor's babysitter, Mary, and I sat down on the steps and watched. Nothing happened. They tilted seats back. One of them smoked. Just waiting. For something.
Finally one called me over and handed me his card. "We're waiting on a call," he explained. "Somebody's breaking into [name of empty building being rehabbed] and we're back up."
Ok, then.
"This a good block? Any crime?"
I told him about the sweaty guy. "Oh, a couple garage break ins, there was an assault in '06."
"Oh-Six?" he says, incredulous. "You had to think back to then?"
"Yeah. It's a pretty good block."
"Sounds like it!"
So maybe we'll have lots of stakeouts on our block. There's shade, kids running around. We'll bring them lemonade...
Eh. No big thing.
This afternoon after pickling with Mary, we made the kids a picnic and walked outside to find two cop cars sitting out front. I thought, "what, more drunk guys?" but didn't approach them. I went in to get the rest of lunch for my girls and when I came out, Maeve was introducing herself to the guys in one car.
Kids played, ate, ran up and down. Maeve flirted with the officers a bit. Popsicles came out. The neighbor's babysitter, Mary, and I sat down on the steps and watched. Nothing happened. They tilted seats back. One of them smoked. Just waiting. For something.
Finally one called me over and handed me his card. "We're waiting on a call," he explained. "Somebody's breaking into [name of empty building being rehabbed] and we're back up."
Ok, then.
"This a good block? Any crime?"
I told him about the sweaty guy. "Oh, a couple garage break ins, there was an assault in '06."
"Oh-Six?" he says, incredulous. "You had to think back to then?"
"Yeah. It's a pretty good block."
"Sounds like it!"
So maybe we'll have lots of stakeouts on our block. There's shade, kids running around. We'll bring them lemonade...
Ten on Tuesday: 10 Fads I Just Don't Get
Probably a lot of things I just don't get. I've never been hip. Really. And not all of these are current fads, of course. Because they're FADS.
1. Bubble Tea. Eww.
2. Ice cream that is just not right. Like basil flavored ice cream.
3. Reality TV, especially elimination shows and ones starring D list celebrities
4. Ribbons (the "I support whatnot" ribbons)
5. Those kids shoes with wheels inside so they can sort of skate around
6. Gigapets
7. Multiple piercings, especially large gauge holes in the ears...I know, Colleen...but still.
8. High School Musical Hannah Montana Thank God My Girls Don't Care
9. Spinning (taking a class to ride a stationary bike. Just, like, go ride your bike)
10. News cycles, like that summer that was all about shark bites, or abducted blond women, that sort of thing.
1. Bubble Tea. Eww.
2. Ice cream that is just not right. Like basil flavored ice cream.
3. Reality TV, especially elimination shows and ones starring D list celebrities
4. Ribbons (the "I support whatnot" ribbons)
5. Those kids shoes with wheels inside so they can sort of skate around
6. Gigapets
7. Multiple piercings, especially large gauge holes in the ears...I know, Colleen...but still.
8. High School Musical Hannah Montana Thank God My Girls Don't Care
9. Spinning (taking a class to ride a stationary bike. Just, like, go ride your bike)
10. News cycles, like that summer that was all about shark bites, or abducted blond women, that sort of thing.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Another Zuke Recipe for ya, Colleen
For those with too much zucchini and tired of primavera and quickbread:
Auntie Gracemarie's Zucchini Appetizer
3 cups thinly sliced zucchini
1 cup Bisquick
1/3 cup oil
4 eggs
Dash garlic powder (Bridgett note: or a clove, perhaps? That's my plan tomorrow)
Generous dash black pepper
½ teaspoon oregano
1 tablespoon minced onion (or onion flakes)
1 cup parmesan cheese
Mix all with beater
Pour into greased 13x 9 pan.
Bake for 30 minutes or until golden.
Serve hot or cold.
------
I remember this dish from my late childhood when I was old enough to attend women's functions like showers. I'm making it tomorrow for dinner. Seriously. This and the leftover magic spaghetti and meatballs Mike made Saturday night while I quilted.
Auntie Gracemarie's Zucchini Appetizer
3 cups thinly sliced zucchini
1 cup Bisquick
1/3 cup oil
4 eggs
Dash garlic powder (Bridgett note: or a clove, perhaps? That's my plan tomorrow)
Generous dash black pepper
½ teaspoon oregano
1 tablespoon minced onion (or onion flakes)
1 cup parmesan cheese
Mix all with beater
Pour into greased 13x 9 pan.
Bake for 30 minutes or until golden.
Serve hot or cold.
------
I remember this dish from my late childhood when I was old enough to attend women's functions like showers. I'm making it tomorrow for dinner. Seriously. This and the leftover magic spaghetti and meatballs Mike made Saturday night while I quilted.
Zucchini Bread!
Aunt Gracemarie's Zucchini Bread (with my notes)
oven 350 degrees
1 c oil (I did use oil and it worked well; I used butter and not so great that time)
3 eggs
1 3/4 c sugar
1 tbsp vanilla
2 c unpeeled shredded zucchini (about 1 1/2 largish normal sized)
3 c flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
2 t cinnamon (I had only about a tsp left, so I substituted with a tsp of nutmeg and will always do that from now on)
1/2 c chopped nuts (optional)
Beat eggs, add sugar, oil, vanilla, zucchini. Stir. Sift dry ingredients together, add to egg mix, stir till moist, add nuts. Pour into 2 well greased loaf pans. Bake 350 degrees 50-60 minutes (I did about 50 minutes, but my oven is hot).
oven 350 degrees
1 c oil (I did use oil and it worked well; I used butter and not so great that time)
3 eggs
1 3/4 c sugar
1 tbsp vanilla
2 c unpeeled shredded zucchini (about 1 1/2 largish normal sized)
3 c flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
2 t cinnamon (I had only about a tsp left, so I substituted with a tsp of nutmeg and will always do that from now on)
1/2 c chopped nuts (optional)
Beat eggs, add sugar, oil, vanilla, zucchini. Stir. Sift dry ingredients together, add to egg mix, stir till moist, add nuts. Pour into 2 well greased loaf pans. Bake 350 degrees 50-60 minutes (I did about 50 minutes, but my oven is hot).
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Standing at Ted Drewes at 9:30 on a Friday Night
They stand there together in the yellow light surrounding the frozen custard stand, waiting for their order. Marshmallow chip for her, peanut butter banana for him. He holds the baby, dressed in a cloth diaper and nothing else. It's a hot night, but she thinks about how her father would be irate to see his grandson in nothing but a diaper out in public. It doesn't happen often, really. And it's usually something cute, something with a pattern or made of a nice fleece. Man, those diapers have got to be hot, she thinks. But the baby doesn't seem to mind. Doesn't know any better, anyway.
While they wait, the fire engine pulls up on the side street, parks in the lot of the abandoned gas station. The firemen walk over, four of them, and the first one asks him if he's in line.
"No sir," he replies like he always does to folks in uniform. The fireman goes up and orders. She takes a long look at them, trying to see if they're from the station on the next block.
When the second one orders, that's when she knows, his voice, his face. He was there, in her living room six months back, but bigger looking, in gear that time, with that big duffel bag over his shoulder. Here, he's slight, narrow shouldered and his eyes are a bit on the buggy side. Doesn't look nearly so intimidating as he did pushing the coffee table aside to get to her daughter, limp and non-responsive in her husband's lap. The other ones, she didn't get a look at their faces, but he was there. He was the one who took her daughter's vitals and said he'd been a medic at the children's hospital, that he'd take her in if it were up to him. Of course, she had thought as he said that. That's why we called you.
They have the custard in hand in the waxy yellow paper cups. "Is he," she starts, "the scrawny one?"
He knows what she means and nods. "Yeah, he was there. Most definitely."
"The medic, the one who told us to go, right?"
"Oh yeah."
She thinks about the next round of men who showed up, the ones with the ambulance, the ones grinning at each other talking about their recent jeep purchases and demanding, good-natured, why they were all just standing around, let's get this baby to the hospital. Baby.
They pull out of the parking spot, annoyed by the car in front of them with political bumper stickers expressing not just opposite views from theirs, but antagonistically opposite views. But she glances at the fire engine's number.
"Is that the house behind us?" he asks.
"I thought ours was 14."
"Who knows how they rotate."
"Yeah, and I don't remember what engine actually showed up that day." She takes a deep breath, an involuntary sigh, thinking about the spring filled with tests and that last doctor's appointment. All will be well, all manner of things will be well, she mumbles to herself.
They head down Grand in the dark. Conversation turns. The custard is the same as always, something from her early childhood of late nights and her father's hospital schedule and hot apartments. The spoon isn't right in her mouth, and she thinks to Carlos, how he suggested that they try spoons out before putting them on their wedding registry. Forks are forks, knives just have to cut, but spoons, they have to feel right. Funny how he's right. Glad it's just a plastic one. They pull up in front of the house just as the neighbors two doors down go in for the night, turning their porch light back on. He takes the baby in and she brings in a stray bag of groceries, canned goods she'd forgotten earlier that day. The house smells like fresh paint and she's happy again.
While they wait, the fire engine pulls up on the side street, parks in the lot of the abandoned gas station. The firemen walk over, four of them, and the first one asks him if he's in line.
"No sir," he replies like he always does to folks in uniform. The fireman goes up and orders. She takes a long look at them, trying to see if they're from the station on the next block.
When the second one orders, that's when she knows, his voice, his face. He was there, in her living room six months back, but bigger looking, in gear that time, with that big duffel bag over his shoulder. Here, he's slight, narrow shouldered and his eyes are a bit on the buggy side. Doesn't look nearly so intimidating as he did pushing the coffee table aside to get to her daughter, limp and non-responsive in her husband's lap. The other ones, she didn't get a look at their faces, but he was there. He was the one who took her daughter's vitals and said he'd been a medic at the children's hospital, that he'd take her in if it were up to him. Of course, she had thought as he said that. That's why we called you.
They have the custard in hand in the waxy yellow paper cups. "Is he," she starts, "the scrawny one?"
He knows what she means and nods. "Yeah, he was there. Most definitely."
"The medic, the one who told us to go, right?"
"Oh yeah."
She thinks about the next round of men who showed up, the ones with the ambulance, the ones grinning at each other talking about their recent jeep purchases and demanding, good-natured, why they were all just standing around, let's get this baby to the hospital. Baby.
They pull out of the parking spot, annoyed by the car in front of them with political bumper stickers expressing not just opposite views from theirs, but antagonistically opposite views. But she glances at the fire engine's number.
"Is that the house behind us?" he asks.
"I thought ours was 14."
"Who knows how they rotate."
"Yeah, and I don't remember what engine actually showed up that day." She takes a deep breath, an involuntary sigh, thinking about the spring filled with tests and that last doctor's appointment. All will be well, all manner of things will be well, she mumbles to herself.
They head down Grand in the dark. Conversation turns. The custard is the same as always, something from her early childhood of late nights and her father's hospital schedule and hot apartments. The spoon isn't right in her mouth, and she thinks to Carlos, how he suggested that they try spoons out before putting them on their wedding registry. Forks are forks, knives just have to cut, but spoons, they have to feel right. Funny how he's right. Glad it's just a plastic one. They pull up in front of the house just as the neighbors two doors down go in for the night, turning their porch light back on. He takes the baby in and she brings in a stray bag of groceries, canned goods she'd forgotten earlier that day. The house smells like fresh paint and she's happy again.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Tenth Life Cat Rescue
Looking for a cat? Try my neighbor's new rescue organization. Elizabeth has an amazing passion for cats. She helped us find Blackjack a year and a half ago, and my sister adopted Bert and Rosemary. She runs Tenth Life, which focuses mostly on injured or abused cats (hence the name). She's looking for adopters and foster families as well.
I thought about this the other night when Mike and I were coming home from the gas station, and on Pestalozzi, about four blocks east, was a gang of cats. A gang of cats. Packs of wild dogs terrify me; packs of wild cats make me slow the car down and say "awww." It was obviously a litter of older kittens--they looked like siblings, all the same size, a narrow range of coloration. It made me wish I lived on a farm and could scoop them up and take them home. But I don't think Hickory, Bleys, and Jack would think that was such a hot idea...so that then made me think about Elizabeth's organization...and then brought me here to write.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
What are you afraid of?
From Mama Kat's blog, another weekly writing moment...
I have some fears, I will admit. Most are fleeting and probably well-founded. In the moment things, like coming to the edge of a cliff and looking down at the Meramec River. Been there, and the fear of falling was appropriate. Likewise, I have a fear of falling off bridges into rivers, but not enough to keep from crossing the Mississippi to visit Mike's family. None of these fears is debilitating, and most of them happen in retrospect: what if we'd fallen? What if the snake had bitten one of us?
Other fears are ones that bug me in the middle of the night. They are also fleeting, but definitely created entirely by my own mind (and not from the situation I've found myself in). Things like outliving my children. Or dying before I can launch them into adulthood. Depressing things like that. I fear mental illness will prey on their minds. Or that they'll run off with tattooed boyfriends and never call. But these don't last long and I wake up in the morning and they are sweet and alive and relatively ok.
But I have one weird completely irrational fear that isn't based on parental worries or in-the-moment safety concerns. I fear abandoned industrial sites. Yup, that's right. I am afraid of old warehouses, factories, and power stations. When I was pregnant with Maeve, I consistently had terrifying nightmares of being trapped in gloomy netherworlds of chemical processing plants that, of course, were on fire.
I have no idea why. I have no experience with such places--I was never kidnapped and left to die in a World War II era munitions plant, so why I sometimes find myself thinking about such things, I will never understand. I hate the fact that much of south St. Louis is built on abandoned mines. I keep worrying that a sinkhole will form in my basement and lead to some sort of coal dust-filled tunnel to who knows where. When I climbed the bell tower in my parish church, I didn't fear falling near as much as just being in a creepy mechanical place with rough hewn steps and dismal lighting. And the fact that no one knew I'd gone up there.
So this past weekend, Mike and I took a new trail on our bikes. We did the Riverfront Trail, which starts in downtown St. Louis and goes up to the confluence--we didn't go that far, since it started raining. But we did a good chunk of it. And everything we rode past, I mean, damn. It starts with an ancient power plant straight out of a Batman film and goes past loading docks, creepy machinery that chops up cars into slivers of metal, tarps covering giant mounds of salt and just the weirdest stuff. The floodwall itself is scary enough sometimes, the little entrances and exits the trail takes in and out and over it. And the lack of crowds on the trail only made it worse. There were times when we could look forward and back and we were. all. alone.
Once back home, I read more about the trail. The north side is still active--even though things look semi-abandoned, there is still active industry after all. Not as spooky. But last night when Mike asked which trail we should take for our evening ride, "Forest Park" was my instant answer. Not going on that downtown trail at dusk. Maybe some bright sunny afternoon sometime. Or maybe not anytime soon at all.
What are you afraid of, anyway?
I have some fears, I will admit. Most are fleeting and probably well-founded. In the moment things, like coming to the edge of a cliff and looking down at the Meramec River. Been there, and the fear of falling was appropriate. Likewise, I have a fear of falling off bridges into rivers, but not enough to keep from crossing the Mississippi to visit Mike's family. None of these fears is debilitating, and most of them happen in retrospect: what if we'd fallen? What if the snake had bitten one of us?
Other fears are ones that bug me in the middle of the night. They are also fleeting, but definitely created entirely by my own mind (and not from the situation I've found myself in). Things like outliving my children. Or dying before I can launch them into adulthood. Depressing things like that. I fear mental illness will prey on their minds. Or that they'll run off with tattooed boyfriends and never call. But these don't last long and I wake up in the morning and they are sweet and alive and relatively ok.
But I have one weird completely irrational fear that isn't based on parental worries or in-the-moment safety concerns. I fear abandoned industrial sites. Yup, that's right. I am afraid of old warehouses, factories, and power stations. When I was pregnant with Maeve, I consistently had terrifying nightmares of being trapped in gloomy netherworlds of chemical processing plants that, of course, were on fire.
I have no idea why. I have no experience with such places--I was never kidnapped and left to die in a World War II era munitions plant, so why I sometimes find myself thinking about such things, I will never understand. I hate the fact that much of south St. Louis is built on abandoned mines. I keep worrying that a sinkhole will form in my basement and lead to some sort of coal dust-filled tunnel to who knows where. When I climbed the bell tower in my parish church, I didn't fear falling near as much as just being in a creepy mechanical place with rough hewn steps and dismal lighting. And the fact that no one knew I'd gone up there.
So this past weekend, Mike and I took a new trail on our bikes. We did the Riverfront Trail, which starts in downtown St. Louis and goes up to the confluence--we didn't go that far, since it started raining. But we did a good chunk of it. And everything we rode past, I mean, damn. It starts with an ancient power plant straight out of a Batman film and goes past loading docks, creepy machinery that chops up cars into slivers of metal, tarps covering giant mounds of salt and just the weirdest stuff. The floodwall itself is scary enough sometimes, the little entrances and exits the trail takes in and out and over it. And the lack of crowds on the trail only made it worse. There were times when we could look forward and back and we were. all. alone.
Once back home, I read more about the trail. The north side is still active--even though things look semi-abandoned, there is still active industry after all. Not as spooky. But last night when Mike asked which trail we should take for our evening ride, "Forest Park" was my instant answer. Not going on that downtown trail at dusk. Maybe some bright sunny afternoon sometime. Or maybe not anytime soon at all.
My Life According to Paul Simon
A meme. Thank you Kaylen. The gist: take a songwriter/music group and answer each line with a title of one of their songs.
Pick your Artist: Paul Simon
Are you male or female: Hey Schoolgirl
Describe yourself: Still Crazy After All These Years
How do you feel: Fakin It
Describe where you currently live: Everything Put Together Falls Apart
If you could go anywhere, where would you go? Somewhere They Can't Find Me
Your favorite form of transportation: Train In The Distance
Your best friend is: The Only Living Boy in New York
You and your best friends are: At the Zoo
What's the weather like: Cloudy
Favorite time of day: Late in the Evening
Your favorite color: Leaves that are Green
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called: I Know What I Know
What is life to you: Born at the Right Time
Your relationship: Crazy Love Vol. II
Your fear: Bridge Over Troubled Water
What is the best advice you have to give: Learn How To Fall
Thought For the Day: How The Heart Approaches What It Yearns
Pick your Artist: Paul Simon
Are you male or female: Hey Schoolgirl
Describe yourself: Still Crazy After All These Years
How do you feel: Fakin It
Describe where you currently live: Everything Put Together Falls Apart
If you could go anywhere, where would you go? Somewhere They Can't Find Me
Your favorite form of transportation: Train In The Distance
Your best friend is: The Only Living Boy in New York
You and your best friends are: At the Zoo
What's the weather like: Cloudy
Favorite time of day: Late in the Evening
Your favorite color: Leaves that are Green
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called: I Know What I Know
What is life to you: Born at the Right Time
Your relationship: Crazy Love Vol. II
Your fear: Bridge Over Troubled Water
What is the best advice you have to give: Learn How To Fall
Thought For the Day: How The Heart Approaches What It Yearns
Parish Stability
Two things I read recently got me thinking about stability, which, if you read this with any regularity, you know is kind of important to me. The first was my parish bulletin this past weekend. In my pastor's column, he writes about the state of the parish. This week he didn't talk about finances (although he hints at them at the end), but listed several other things that could indicate the health of the parish. He also spoke of these during the homily, the most striking number being the fact that our parish has grown by about 140 families in the past 3 years. That seems just staggeringly amazing to me--we've gone from the mid 300s to almost 500 families. Wow.
But the paragraph in his column that struck me so was about sacraments from the past year. We've had 12 infant baptisms, including Leo. We've had 6 first communions, including Sophia. And I can't remember the number of weddings, but it included Steve and Mary. Our last name showed up all over that paragraph. It's a fluke of this year, of course--next year we won't show up at all on that list (hopefully--he also listed the 10 funerals we've had this year). Looking at that paragraph, though, I thought back to the many times I seriously considered leaving St. Pius. Seriously considered. Leaving for other denominations; leaving for other parishes; just leaving. But we stayed, and I think staying made our marriage stronger and our lives better.
The other thing I read was from the latest NCR (National Catholic Reporter). It was an article by Melissa Musick Nussbaum that directly addressed the topic of Benedictine-style stability regarding parish life, comparing it to long term married couples (including herself). She writes about parish shoppers, how they are obviously part of the American consumer culture, that we vote with our feet and take our checkbooks with us. But then she delves into the rewards of staying put (with the caveat that if staying put is harmful, you don't do it, in a marriage or a parish--but that you don't leave just because the thrill is gone or because the next parish over has a vibrant young pastor or an active women's club, or whatever). She proposes that stability allows for parish memory, and that this in turn has its rewards:
I thought about that. I've been at St. Pius 11 years--by no means a record at the parish--but I am part of that parish memory. I was there with my 2 week old daughter when we came up with our proposal to counter the bishop's plan to close our parish. I was there at that parish picnic when the police had to intervene (wasn't that more than one, though?). I taught at the school. I helped rehab the sanctuary. My children were baptized, I was confirmed, my brother-in-law and his wife had that wedding on Friday in Lent. I was there for Kyle's funeral and for Joe's. I was on parish council. I've been up in the bell tower. A pew sits in my dining room. And so forth.
When I started participating in the 365 blog project--basically, a daily writing exercise--the first was 32 words a day about a person I knew, every day for a year. The number of words was based on how old I was going to be that year. I loved this project, and went on to do others like it. But my very first post was about Mike, of course, and the last sentence goes: I know all your stories and you know mine.
The only way to learn those stories, and tell your own, of course, is to stay.
But the paragraph in his column that struck me so was about sacraments from the past year. We've had 12 infant baptisms, including Leo. We've had 6 first communions, including Sophia. And I can't remember the number of weddings, but it included Steve and Mary. Our last name showed up all over that paragraph. It's a fluke of this year, of course--next year we won't show up at all on that list (hopefully--he also listed the 10 funerals we've had this year). Looking at that paragraph, though, I thought back to the many times I seriously considered leaving St. Pius. Seriously considered. Leaving for other denominations; leaving for other parishes; just leaving. But we stayed, and I think staying made our marriage stronger and our lives better.
The other thing I read was from the latest NCR (National Catholic Reporter). It was an article by Melissa Musick Nussbaum that directly addressed the topic of Benedictine-style stability regarding parish life, comparing it to long term married couples (including herself). She writes about parish shoppers, how they are obviously part of the American consumer culture, that we vote with our feet and take our checkbooks with us. But then she delves into the rewards of staying put (with the caveat that if staying put is harmful, you don't do it, in a marriage or a parish--but that you don't leave just because the thrill is gone or because the next parish over has a vibrant young pastor or an active women's club, or whatever). She proposes that stability allows for parish memory, and that this in turn has its rewards:
Parish memory is an antidote to nostalgia. There was never a golden age when we prayed without ceasing, cared for the poor without complaining and shunned gossip. There was never a time when our priests were all attentive and wise in the confessional, eloquent yet brief at the ambo and saints on the streets.
I thought about that. I've been at St. Pius 11 years--by no means a record at the parish--but I am part of that parish memory. I was there with my 2 week old daughter when we came up with our proposal to counter the bishop's plan to close our parish. I was there at that parish picnic when the police had to intervene (wasn't that more than one, though?). I taught at the school. I helped rehab the sanctuary. My children were baptized, I was confirmed, my brother-in-law and his wife had that wedding on Friday in Lent. I was there for Kyle's funeral and for Joe's. I was on parish council. I've been up in the bell tower. A pew sits in my dining room. And so forth.
When I started participating in the 365 blog project--basically, a daily writing exercise--the first was 32 words a day about a person I knew, every day for a year. The number of words was based on how old I was going to be that year. I loved this project, and went on to do others like it. But my very first post was about Mike, of course, and the last sentence goes: I know all your stories and you know mine.
The only way to learn those stories, and tell your own, of course, is to stay.
Ten on Tuesday: 10 Favorite Characters from Television
I don't watch a lot of TV right now, so this list will probably be kind of dated. Saying that, however, reminds me that I watch my fair share of hulu and netflix. So maybe it'll be just fine.
Also, in a few cases, I liked an entire cast, or most of a cast of a particular show. They don't each get their own number...
1. Mike Logan from seasons 1-5 Law & Order. Have you met me? Then you knew this.
2. Malcolm Reynolds from the depressingly short-lived Firefly. And Zoe and Jayne and everyone else. Here is very good. And here.
3. Hawkeye Pierce from M*A*S*H, and the cast from the Potter years.
4. Mrs. Slocombe from Are You Being Served. And I am unanimous in this. Mr. Humphries, too.
5. Jonesy from HBO's Carnivale.
6. Casey McCall and Dan Rydell from Sportsnight
7. Bill McNeil from NewsRadio. And Jimmy James. I miss Phil Hartman.
8. Guy Smiley from Sesame Street. This clip is my absolute favorite. About a minute in. Hilarious.
9. Data and Worf from Star Trek: The Next Generation.
10. Roy and Moss from The IT Crowd. And here.
Also, in a few cases, I liked an entire cast, or most of a cast of a particular show. They don't each get their own number...
1. Mike Logan from seasons 1-5 Law & Order. Have you met me? Then you knew this.
2. Malcolm Reynolds from the depressingly short-lived Firefly. And Zoe and Jayne and everyone else. Here is very good. And here.
3. Hawkeye Pierce from M*A*S*H, and the cast from the Potter years.
4. Mrs. Slocombe from Are You Being Served. And I am unanimous in this. Mr. Humphries, too.
5. Jonesy from HBO's Carnivale.
6. Casey McCall and Dan Rydell from Sportsnight
7. Bill McNeil from NewsRadio. And Jimmy James. I miss Phil Hartman.
8. Guy Smiley from Sesame Street. This clip is my absolute favorite. About a minute in. Hilarious.
9. Data and Worf from Star Trek: The Next Generation.
10. Roy and Moss from The IT Crowd. And here.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Other updates before I go sew...
I'm headed to go sew but felt I needed to add:
My grandmother is ok. She's at Nazareth House down in south county for 4-6 weeks and then they think she'll go home. I'm really surprised, happily so. But, her oldest son, my dad's next older brother (there's daughter, son, my dad, son, daughter, daughter, son, son), was in the hospital last week for surgery and while recuperating, had a massive heart attack. So he's due for bypass surgery tomorrow (Monday)--basically, the only reason he's alive is because it happened in the hospital (but it begs the question, would it have happened without the surgery? Of course, he needed the surgery...hmm...). He's 59 next month. That's young for my dad's side--nobody over there has history of heart related anything. In fact, my genetics are damned strong on that side considering everything. I mean, I roll the dice on epilepsy but the only thing people really seem to die from, besides being ancient, is lifestyle illness (drink too much, smoke too much). Rick has drunk too much and smoked too much for too long. So we'll see how that goes. So far the Blakes have been making it. Goes with our Irish luck: the luckiest unlucky people you'll ever meet. I think that's on our family crest. Except in Latin. Plurimus...felic...oh, never mind.
My grandmother is ok. She's at Nazareth House down in south county for 4-6 weeks and then they think she'll go home. I'm really surprised, happily so. But, her oldest son, my dad's next older brother (there's daughter, son, my dad, son, daughter, daughter, son, son), was in the hospital last week for surgery and while recuperating, had a massive heart attack. So he's due for bypass surgery tomorrow (Monday)--basically, the only reason he's alive is because it happened in the hospital (but it begs the question, would it have happened without the surgery? Of course, he needed the surgery...hmm...). He's 59 next month. That's young for my dad's side--nobody over there has history of heart related anything. In fact, my genetics are damned strong on that side considering everything. I mean, I roll the dice on epilepsy but the only thing people really seem to die from, besides being ancient, is lifestyle illness (drink too much, smoke too much). Rick has drunk too much and smoked too much for too long. So we'll see how that goes. So far the Blakes have been making it. Goes with our Irish luck: the luckiest unlucky people you'll ever meet. I think that's on our family crest. Except in Latin. Plurimus...felic...oh, never mind.
Busy Week Ahead
I hope, at least.
We are redecorating the kitchen. I put up the paint primer (nice alliteration there) this afternoon; the color goes up tomorrow. Once the wall color is up, most of the woodwork is next. Our kitchen has seen some rough use in 104 years, and so the woodwork is not wood colored, but coated in many layers of paint. Some of it is getting taken out (the baseboards, some of the high chair rail, about my eye level, I don't know what it's called at that level). The windows, though, and the shelves in one of the windows, will be brick red. Below that high woodwork/chair rail/whatever thingy, we're putting some gray and red marble that we've had stored in our basement for 6 years or whatever. Crazy long time. That will also go under the cabinets above the sink and so forth. The leftovers will be used in the small half bath that's off the kitchen (which I HATE, but I want a downstairs bath again...anyway, that's not this week's project).
This week I will be happy to get the painting done and some more organizing in the basement to accommodate some of the kitchen stuff. Like cookie tins. I'm not getting rid of them, since I use them once a year, but since I do only use them once a year, they really should go rest somewhere else the other 11 months of the year.
The other thing want to get done is to finally set my stove into a permanent housing. Right now, it rests comfortably on a sturdy cabinet base. I have a great stove, from the 1960s, that I inherited from my aunt Gracemarie. It has a drawer you pull out for the burners (and thus you can push back in after use), and there are two ovens both at eye level. Anyway, I love my stove, but it sits about 2 inches from the wall in the back. There is no easy way to remedy this; it is designed to be surrounded by counters and cabinets on both sides. But mine is not because of the way the kitchen is laid out, for better or worse. So we're going to wall it in on the right side as you're facing it. Also getting rid of the counter right next to that, where the girls eat breakfast. Putting in a small table where three kids can eat breakfast since that's coming sooner than I want to consider right now.
Later, we'll have to do the floor, but that will wait until the bathroom is done as well (and then we can make the floor continue into there).
The other things I'm doing this week? Taking more pictures for the church directory. Taking my mother to the doctor. Finishing a quilt row for that row robin I was a part of so long ago--my row came back, happy day, but one participant's row got waylaid by the same person who waylaid mine. Except we don't think this one's coming back. It's an easy pattern and Kerri and I decided to make her new rows (Cathy's already got to her separately, and the organizer is making the last row). It's a bento box pattern and I like it well enough I might make myself one someday.
Oh, and I'm hoping to finish the top of Leo's quilt, too, this week. And keep the house clean (easy with no girls; hard with messy kitchen), bike Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and take Leo to the doctor for his 6 month "no he isn't failing to thrive thank you very much" appointment.
Obviously there will be liberal application of caffeine. I'll post pictures of my progress (more alliteration).
We are redecorating the kitchen. I put up the paint primer (nice alliteration there) this afternoon; the color goes up tomorrow. Once the wall color is up, most of the woodwork is next. Our kitchen has seen some rough use in 104 years, and so the woodwork is not wood colored, but coated in many layers of paint. Some of it is getting taken out (the baseboards, some of the high chair rail, about my eye level, I don't know what it's called at that level). The windows, though, and the shelves in one of the windows, will be brick red. Below that high woodwork/chair rail/whatever thingy, we're putting some gray and red marble that we've had stored in our basement for 6 years or whatever. Crazy long time. That will also go under the cabinets above the sink and so forth. The leftovers will be used in the small half bath that's off the kitchen (which I HATE, but I want a downstairs bath again...anyway, that's not this week's project).
This week I will be happy to get the painting done and some more organizing in the basement to accommodate some of the kitchen stuff. Like cookie tins. I'm not getting rid of them, since I use them once a year, but since I do only use them once a year, they really should go rest somewhere else the other 11 months of the year.
The other thing want to get done is to finally set my stove into a permanent housing. Right now, it rests comfortably on a sturdy cabinet base. I have a great stove, from the 1960s, that I inherited from my aunt Gracemarie. It has a drawer you pull out for the burners (and thus you can push back in after use), and there are two ovens both at eye level. Anyway, I love my stove, but it sits about 2 inches from the wall in the back. There is no easy way to remedy this; it is designed to be surrounded by counters and cabinets on both sides. But mine is not because of the way the kitchen is laid out, for better or worse. So we're going to wall it in on the right side as you're facing it. Also getting rid of the counter right next to that, where the girls eat breakfast. Putting in a small table where three kids can eat breakfast since that's coming sooner than I want to consider right now.
Later, we'll have to do the floor, but that will wait until the bathroom is done as well (and then we can make the floor continue into there).
The other things I'm doing this week? Taking more pictures for the church directory. Taking my mother to the doctor. Finishing a quilt row for that row robin I was a part of so long ago--my row came back, happy day, but one participant's row got waylaid by the same person who waylaid mine. Except we don't think this one's coming back. It's an easy pattern and Kerri and I decided to make her new rows (Cathy's already got to her separately, and the organizer is making the last row). It's a bento box pattern and I like it well enough I might make myself one someday.
Oh, and I'm hoping to finish the top of Leo's quilt, too, this week. And keep the house clean (easy with no girls; hard with messy kitchen), bike Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and take Leo to the doctor for his 6 month "no he isn't failing to thrive thank you very much" appointment.
Obviously there will be liberal application of caffeine. I'll post pictures of my progress (more alliteration).
Bridgett Takes Photos of Shut Ins
It's been really pleasant, actually.
It's weird, the things you wind up doing. I've been reading the book Connections, which is the companion to the BBC show of the same name. The man who created it, James Burke, took a series of modern inventions (computer, atomic bomb, telephone, etc) and traced them back to the beginning technology required. And then he starts each chapter at that beginning point--for instance, panning for gold in the mountains of Turkey--and goes step by step how things happen at the right moment and in the right order to produce new technologies. If I were to do that with the title of this entry, it would go like this...
Bridgett moves to Dallas and starts high school. After a semester, she moves to Georgia.
In Georgia, not all of her credits can be continued (like German I, for instance). The guidance counselor does the best she can.
After a year and a half, Bridgett moves to Houston. The guidance counselor there plays fast and loose with the credits from the first two high schools, which winds up ranking her first in class (a designation she never loses, by the way), and gives her enough credits in some areas that she has time left over her senior year. Even with taking two foreign languages that year (Russian I and French III), and choir, she still has a space in her day that needs a class. How about photojournalism? the counselor asks. Whatever, thinks cynical teenaged Bridgett.
Bridgett takes photojournalism and soaks up all the information. Her end of the year project gets entered into a state competition and places. Rejoicing all around. But Bridgett goes to college and leaves the camera at home (it doesn't belong to her, but to her dad, after all).
After college, Bridgett marries Mike and soon they put a bid on a house in south St. Louis, which they lose. Then another. Finally, on the third try, they buy a beat up foursquare that used to be a boarding house (like ten minutes before they bought it...). After moving in, Bridgett calls St. Pius to see about registering. But they aren't in the parish boundaries. But the pastor persuades them to come and see anyway. They do. And they join.
Over the course of 8 years, Bridgett teaches there, volunteers there, and then draws herself away for a while. Considers leaving the church for the Quakers. Takes one last stab at Catholicism on a women's retreat with Sr. Cathy. Decides she can stay.
Bridgett finds herself suddenly on parish council and in charge of keeping the church clean. In the process of weekly tidying, she begins to notice stained glass in the church. Other details. Her prayer life starts to revolve around images from St. Pius.
She begins to take photos. And writes down the things she's thinking about. Sr. Mary notices. She dives deeper into the history of St. Pius and treats it like a mystery to be solved. Along the way, other things beckon (she gets pregnant, for instance), and she lets the church photos fall by the wayside for a while.
But somebody at the parish (Sr. Mary? the secretary?) remembered that she took pictures. And St. Pius decided it was time to put out a pictorial directory of the parish. But if you're homebound, it's difficult to make it up to church for an appointment to have the company they've hired take your picture. So Bridgett and Nichole are asked if they might go to folks' houses and take pictures of them.
Bridgett reluctantly agrees.
And now that she's taken a few, she's glad she did. Just like everything she winds up doing for church, at church, with church. Resist...but giving in, wonder why you resisted at all.
It's weird, the things you wind up doing. I've been reading the book Connections, which is the companion to the BBC show of the same name. The man who created it, James Burke, took a series of modern inventions (computer, atomic bomb, telephone, etc) and traced them back to the beginning technology required. And then he starts each chapter at that beginning point--for instance, panning for gold in the mountains of Turkey--and goes step by step how things happen at the right moment and in the right order to produce new technologies. If I were to do that with the title of this entry, it would go like this...
Bridgett moves to Dallas and starts high school. After a semester, she moves to Georgia.
In Georgia, not all of her credits can be continued (like German I, for instance). The guidance counselor does the best she can.
After a year and a half, Bridgett moves to Houston. The guidance counselor there plays fast and loose with the credits from the first two high schools, which winds up ranking her first in class (a designation she never loses, by the way), and gives her enough credits in some areas that she has time left over her senior year. Even with taking two foreign languages that year (Russian I and French III), and choir, she still has a space in her day that needs a class. How about photojournalism? the counselor asks. Whatever, thinks cynical teenaged Bridgett.
Bridgett takes photojournalism and soaks up all the information. Her end of the year project gets entered into a state competition and places. Rejoicing all around. But Bridgett goes to college and leaves the camera at home (it doesn't belong to her, but to her dad, after all).
After college, Bridgett marries Mike and soon they put a bid on a house in south St. Louis, which they lose. Then another. Finally, on the third try, they buy a beat up foursquare that used to be a boarding house (like ten minutes before they bought it...). After moving in, Bridgett calls St. Pius to see about registering. But they aren't in the parish boundaries. But the pastor persuades them to come and see anyway. They do. And they join.
Over the course of 8 years, Bridgett teaches there, volunteers there, and then draws herself away for a while. Considers leaving the church for the Quakers. Takes one last stab at Catholicism on a women's retreat with Sr. Cathy. Decides she can stay.
Bridgett finds herself suddenly on parish council and in charge of keeping the church clean. In the process of weekly tidying, she begins to notice stained glass in the church. Other details. Her prayer life starts to revolve around images from St. Pius.
She begins to take photos. And writes down the things she's thinking about. Sr. Mary notices. She dives deeper into the history of St. Pius and treats it like a mystery to be solved. Along the way, other things beckon (she gets pregnant, for instance), and she lets the church photos fall by the wayside for a while.
But somebody at the parish (Sr. Mary? the secretary?) remembered that she took pictures. And St. Pius decided it was time to put out a pictorial directory of the parish. But if you're homebound, it's difficult to make it up to church for an appointment to have the company they've hired take your picture. So Bridgett and Nichole are asked if they might go to folks' houses and take pictures of them.
Bridgett reluctantly agrees.
And now that she's taken a few, she's glad she did. Just like everything she winds up doing for church, at church, with church. Resist...but giving in, wonder why you resisted at all.
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