Bathtime

Suddenly you look around

So today in the car, on the way to the post office, I realized that prayers were answered. And in the way I might have wanted them to be. A lot of the anxiety from the last month has alleviated, and the parts of it that haven't yet are well-founded anxiety (meaning, not just useless worry, but things I need to DEAL with).

Sometimes intercessory prayer seems almost pointless. Like, why would I pray for this or that if what's going to happen is going to happen? Can I really change God's will? What is God's will? Doesn't God know better than I do anyway and most of the time intercessory prayers are closer to magical thinking and wish fulfillment than really prayer?

And we've all been on the "no" end of intercessory prayer--we wanted that job or this person to recover or something to go well, and it doesn't work out that way. Sometimes, with appropriate distance and hindsight, we see why--how different life would have been for us if we'd gotten the house on Nottingham instead of the one on Halliday. But other times it's hard to see--why couldn't he have come out of the coma? He was 9. What was the purpose there?

Sometimes I think intercessory prayer is a way to focus my own head, especially when I pray for something to succeed, something that isn't based entirely on miracle or good fortune. A nun at my monastery said the purpose of intercessory prayer was to bring the whole world closer to God with tiny threads of hope. I like that image, but I'm bad at this kind of prayer. Which is perhaps why I'm not a perpetual adoration sister. Really.

But there have been a few small times when I realize that yes, I was on the "yes" end of it. My will and God's must have been, for a brief tangent line, in the same space. For a second I have a little breathing room. Which is, I think, behind my intercessory prayer of all kinds.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 Favorite Children's Movies

Ok, so I will try not to make this a big Ode to Hayao Miyazaki.

1. My Neighbor Totoro: two female protagonists, parents are revered and trusted, gentle, beautiful, my favorite.
2. Kiki's Delivery Service: more female protagonists, no real evil to be overcome or defeated, no real villain, but still a great story (Disney could learn from that) about coming of age. Plus one of the last projects Phil Hartmann did as the voice of Gigi the cat.
3. Spirited Away: Of the three Miyazaki films I've listed so far, my least favorite, but still hands down better than so many other movies for children. This one is scarier--Maeve likes it but it took Sophia a long time to warm up to it. Again, female protagonist, spirit world, good and evil are blurred (like in real life...).
4. Charlie Brown Christmas Special
5. Fantasia
6. Whispers of the Heart: this is a Studio Ghibli (Miyazaki's studio) film about a young girl (of course) growing up and trying to figure out what she wants. It's set in reasonably modern Japan and her family is more annoying than in previous films but she's older, too.
7. Babe: talking animals, a farmer's wife named Esme, Roscoe Lee Browne narrates, and watching James Cromwell dancing and you know, it's a good movie.
8. The Wizard of Oz
9. How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the original cartoon with the song, you remember)
10. You know, I think I'm going to like Ponyo enough to put it here. It's Miyazaki's current film. There are some weird holes in the plot at points, but it is cute and beautiful and there's a whole scene about breastfeeding. So that's good.

Nursing Bra?

Ok. I have bra problems. And I'm going to talk about them here. You've been warned.

I have always been very top-heavy, no matter what size jeans I was wearing at the time. I have been sized multiple times by multiple people and no matter what the answer, the bra is weird.

This is especially true of nursing bras. There are only a scant few options at my cup size. Like, THREE options. And all of them are softcup, which has meant, for me, that they are at least two of the three:

1. ugly
2. unsupportive
3. mush my breasts together into the center (no separate, even if they lift)

Some are even all three! And all of them gap between the undercup and the overcup, which is lovely. Most of them look like something your grandmother would wear and all of them make up for the lack of underwire with a huge band that flips up.

So I found a tutorial online about how to take a normal bra and convert it to a nursing bra. And I went to an online bra shop and found a panache harmony in my size. I'm not 100% convinced it's the bra for me, but what I do know is that I'm not going to wear nursing bras anymore. It's a balconette bra, which means it isn't a full cup, and guess what. You can slip the shoulder strap down and the top of the cup slips down and voila. Voila indeed. So I'm not going to sew the dang thing and I'm not going to wear those ugly bras anymore. Except to bike. The Elila is a great sports bra that way. But it's a crappy nursing bra for someone who's had her third kid and doesn't need more reminders that she's not a pretty young thing anymore.

Yay Panache.

The Weary Rehab Blues

Not talking about heroin. Talking about having a house built in 1905 that has had some bad bad stuff done to it.

I set out this summer to "rehab" the kitchen. This isn't true rehab. I didn't replace any cabinets or the fridge or anything like that. What I did was put up beadboard below the chair rail, painted the woodwork, changed a few things, cleaned the place up. I'm not completely finished with this project, alas. I got sidetracked by some health problems and back-to-school and so forth. It was my intention to get it done for my birthday at the end of the next month. We did take out one cabinet/counter where the girls ate breakfast, and replaced it with a groovy retro table with leaves that retract--we can sit and eat in the kitchen now, as long as after we're done, we scoot the table back against the wall. Things were coming along. I figured we'd replace the floor in February.

Then, of course, the dog exploded all over the kitchen (she's fine, by the way, fully recovered). So it moved the floor replacement plan up quite a bit. We started investigating. There was NO WAY I was putting down more peel and stick vinyl. I wasn't too thrilled with the idea of laminate since all I could find online was a bunch of warnings about how you shouldn't use it in a kitchen. Then we looked at engineered hardwood (hardwood with a plywood base). It looked like the best option. Then Mike went to look at it at this lumber liquidator style place. Way too thick, he decided.

See, our floor is stick on vinyl on top of a thin subfloor. We take both those out, and we have only just over a 1/4 inch to play with without having to shave off the bottoms of the doors. And in my kitchen, there are FIVE (5) (cinco) (vijf) doors that open into the kitchen. It's a little crowded for a room that's only 10 by 16. And the idea of shaving off all those doors was a little overwhelming--mostly because the back door, how crazy is this, has a WHEEL (rueda) (wiel) on the bottom in the corner. It's bizarre. So the 3/4 inch engineered wood would have created great lamentation and probably would have required a new back door.

This is part of our weary rehab blues.

So then Mike and I looked at marmoleum, which is deeply discounted now because they've changed the design. We don't need much, with the cabinets and stove being permanent installations at this point. Marmoleum is 9.8 mm thick. Mike looked at the measurement on my sewing tape and shook his head. There's no way.

So then today while I sat with kittens and my neighbor at Strange Folk craft fair, Mike pulled up the rest of the stick on vinyl and the luan board. Under that, he reported to me, was another peel and stick layer that was half peeled up--a black and white. Below that, the same floor that was in the kitchen bathroom, an insane glue down vinyl tile, still 12 inch, in green and blue and gross. Below that, he could see (it was like a patchwork quilt) the masonite subfloor.


"I'm going to take a core sample," he announced.

I got home and saw the core sample. The two layers of vinyl stuck to the masonite. The masonite lifted off the next layer like a piece of bread off a sandwich. Below that? A green and yellow printed thing, with a felt back. Below that, the floor, the pine floor we have throughout the house, but hardly recognizable because of the felt. I got terrified suddenly that we were looking at something made of asbestos. We ran upstairs to check out the infinitely wise interwebz and found that it probably isn't--it's actually probably REAL (verdadero) (echt) linoleum. Not vinyl. The real thing, the linseed oil and whatnot--just like the new stuff we're going to put down.

So I told Mike, let's take out all this crappy peel and stick that's stuck to the masonite and see what the floor looks like under it.

Well, dear readers, it looks like this:

It's a sheet. Actually, two sheets, 6 feet wide, with a thin seam in good condition down the center. A phone call to my dad confirmed (or at least added to the suspicion)--asbestos tile in houses is usually 9 inch tile, not sheet goods. I felt better, but I knew we didn't want to chance it. This will be our subfloor. Even if it did turn out to be asbestos, or have some sort of glue or whatever, we're not sanding or even taking it out. It'll just hang out below the NEW linoleum. Once again, our problems are almost never with the decisions made by the folks who built the house 104 years ago. They are always with the decisions made since. A century ago, linoleum was a great idea. It is again now. In between, well...

Mike took more of it up and I stood there staring at it a few minutes ago. And all I could think was YOU SONS OF BITCHES WHO PUT THIS STUFF ON TOP OF THIS BEAUTIFUL BASE FLOOR (USTED ELLOS LOS NIÑOS DE PERROS PUSO ESTA MATERIA SOBRE ESTE PISO HERMOSO) (U ZONEN VAN HONDEN ZET DIT MATERIAAL BOVENOP DEZE MOOIE VLOER VAN DE BASIS).

Seriously. In what universe did this seem like a better idea?


I know, when it was new, it wasn't a hodgepodge of masonite, black and white tile, and the other tile. It was just the other tile. But that tile. It looks like a helpless raccoon in the corners. I can imagine it acting out the pantomime to the little cabin in the woods friendly man by the window stood song (girl scout flashback moment). Help me! Help me! Help me! it cried.

Oy.

Well, Mike took more up--he worked on it for about two hours, and two things became apparent:
1. There is some water damage by the fridge. Or it could be from where the stove once stood (there's a flue there). So the floor isn't pristine.
2. The masonite and two layers of vinyl tile, now that they are exposed to air again, STINK (hedor) (stink). They stink like how our house did when we first bought it. A mixture of bad air freshener and old lady dying of liver cancer.

I'm going to order the marmoleum on Monday. So that sometime soon, Mike won't look like this anymore.
They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no. Seriously. It disrupts everything. But I know, someday soon, it will be better. We will not relapse.

Strange Folk

Strange Folk is where I'm going tomorrow. All the information, I think, is there. Wanted to post that before it was too late.

Sometimes when you're drowning there's a lifeguard

And sometimes there isn't. But it looks like this time, there might be.

"I have that same feeling I had in summer 2006, you know, when I had shigella and there was a blackout and an assault on the block and maggots in the diaper pail and---"

"I know," Mike interrupts.

But things are starting to look up. I think we're going to be able to swing the good kitchen floor after all. And we got a check in the mail we weren't expecting. And Sophia's Kumon instructor has made things easy just now. And. And. And.

I'm going to go eat ice cream.

Dang Kids

You know, most of my headaches, if they are child-sponsored, come from Maeve. Everyone knows this. But today, it's Sophia.

On Monday, we were in Cairo for the funeral, and so she missed Irish Dance. She goes twice a week--once out to the studio in Manchester, and once here in town. She's supposed to go tonight, to the one close by. But she found out at school that tonight is open house.

Having been a kid, I know that sometimes, open house is fun. You're at school at night, you usually get to play with friends while your parents hang out and talk about boring things like tardy policies and what kind of milk the school provides. Tonight, they're going to have the preschool teachers in charge of childcare, show a movie, have a snack. It may or may not be a great time. I don't know.

And I don't care. My plan for the evening involved a great deal of juggling--I'm going to go see a house with Bevin and my parents, one she is tempted to buy but is unsure about its structural integrity. Maeve has dance from 5:30 to 6:30, which I will drop off for and Mike will pick up (and bring her and Leo to the open house, which also starts at 6:30, and at which I will already be post-house-hunt, and Sophia will be dropped off at 6:30 for dance and picked up at 8:15).

Sophia also goes to an additional 45 minute practice with a girl who lives about 10 blocks from us every Wednesday. She did do that this week. But she missed Monday and there's no way I can get her to another version of the class on Saturday, since Mike is busy with the dang tile in the kitchen and I'm going to a craft fair in Illinois with the neighbor who runs the cat shelter (she has an adoption event there, at Strange Folk). The next class is Monday, her regular class time.

I had this all knit up. It was done in my head. So she gets in the car this afternoon and asks if we're going to open house. I explain. Tears. She wants to go. She hardly gets to play with her school friends. They had to clean the classroom special for tonight.

I tell her she can go to the beginner class, then, and at least get some exercise (that's why she goes twice a week--it's her only sport at this point besides bike rides with us). She says she'll be embarrassed since she's so tall. Except how obvious is it that she's not a beginner, huh? But she's got it all wrapped up in her head that I'm not fair and she's put-upon and Maeve gets everything she wants, etc.

So I'm going to let her go. Mike will pick Maeve up at dance and bring them both over to school. Or some version of that carpool scheme I've concocted. But I need her to understand something here, and I'm beginning to even lose what it is she needs to understand.

I mean, on one hand, it's September. It's not January (getting ready for St. Pat's season). She doesn't have another feis for 4 months. She knows everything they're doing right now, pretty much. But missing class is discourteous.

Open house does happen just once a year. But we've arranged our lives around these activities and Monday and Thursday is when they happen and changing it is somewhat discourteous to me.

If I make an exception here, when will it stop? On the other hand, she really wants to go and she rarely makes requests. Then again, every time she does make a request like this, she pulls out the pouty tears and whines.

It's been one hell of a week or two for everyone. I should just relax. Right? But Irish Dance costs money if she goes or not, and there's that consideration too. And on the other hand, it is likely that tonight will be dull and maybe that will show her something.

But she's going to pay for this. Not like in a "I'm gonna make her regret it" kind of way but in a "choices have ramifications" way. But, like I said, I'm having a hard time figuring out the natural consequence here. Should she pay me back for the missed lesson? Should she work it off? I just don't know.

All I know is that I'm sort of in great need of getting away. And I think I need to figure out what kind of mother I'm going to be and just be that.

My Sunday Morning

Mike's uncle died on Friday morning. He got up early, made his bed, got dressed for the day. He went downstairs, but didn't spend any time at his desk, since the calendar page from Thursday hadn't been ripped off yet. He had a magazine article open that apparently he'd been reading to prepare for Sunday's homily on the desk as well, next to the little pencil holder from St. Meinrad's. The martyr of hospitality, it said on its side.

He walked into the living room, sat down on a chair, and slid to the floor. His secretary came in soon after--before he was missed at daily mass--and found him. He had just celebrated his 58th birthday a month ago. Mike and I happened to be in town (meaning in Cairo) picking up the girls and decided, sure, we'll spend Sunday afternoon in Du Quoin at Tom's house. We never once worried that it would be the last time we'd see him--as opposed to every time, say, I see my grandmother these days. Never occurred to us. He seemed fine.

I sat in his office reading ahead the readings planned for his memorial mass while other relatives wandered around like they'd find him if they just checked in the right place. Some sort of hole in the room and if they could just find where the draft was coming in. My back still hurt from lifting Dara into the van Friday and it was nice to just sit a moment. It was Tom's bible, not one belonging to the rectory. Had a Benedictine prayer card and a bookmark from some priests' gathering. I realized I should have had more conversations about Benedictine theology. I could glance around that office and find at least 10 reminders of it on the walls, the desk, the books. I guess we talked a little at Christmas. Mary Helen gave me a book about the Benedictine ladder of humility and we talked. Just a little.

Whoever welcomes the child, welcomes me. A reading from the Gospel according to Matthew. Psalm 23. I still couldn't believe we were doing this.

We went outside and stood around awkwardly. Knights of Columbus arrived with their feathery hats and little swords, from different parishes where Tom had served. They hovered on the edges of the yard. We waited. Finally it was time to head over to church, across a short parking lot.

And we had a horribly awkward tense sad visitation. Tom had only been in Du Quoin for two months; I don't think they knew him, and they certainly didn't know his family. I kind of thought of what it would have been like if our pastor had died two months after he arrived in 2006. How awkward and strange that mourning would have been. But southern Illinois isn't that big and there were other people from other parishes come to this memorial mass.

One of his classmates said the homily, a strange looking man with what seemed to be an aging case of Bell's Palsy and a hearing aid. I wasn't sure what was going to come out of his mouth, but one of the first things he said was "You're not supposed to eulogize at funeral homilies, but I don't see any bishops here." This was met with applause. He also mentioned how ticked off he was with God right then. And how he's realized there aren't any classmates left to give the homily at his funeral. This hit me--from what I could gather (Maeve was wrestling me through most of the homily), there were only 3 ordained in Tom's class. Tom, this man (George?) and another Tom. "Hell, I'll tell the story anyway, they're both dead now," he said as a segue at one point. But what hit me was how lonely that sounded, his voice, in realizing these men he'd known since he was 13, who had been his classmates and friends, the three of them--he was the only one left. "I'm next."

Of course Maeve bumped her head on the pew and had to be carried outside. Once we were in Tom's yard, sitting at his patio table, and once she was done with her lashing out ("I don't want to be part of your family anymore," she said, which is one of her favorites), she asked me if Tom was really dead.

"Yes, he is," I said simply, not wanting to overwhelm her with information.

"But we can still visit, right?" she tried.

"No, not really, honey, we don't know anyone here, we don't have an reason to come back."

"But his wife is still alive," she protested.

"Honey, he's a priest. He isn't married."

"But yes he is---she took me upstairs to see the attic when we were here for his birthday."

She was talking about Darlene, probably Tom's closest friend, from Red Bud, who had indeed showed her the attic when we were there in August. I ruminated on childlike innocence and connections you make when you're little--I was convinced, CONVINCED, at one point in my childhood that my uncle Joe was Kenny Rogers, for instance. After the mass, but before the parish fed us (oh how we were fed this weekend) at the Italian restaurant down the street, I told Mary Helen and Darlene what Maeve had said. It was a good story to share. But the smiles through the grief on their faces was almost too much to bear.

I hadn't really known Tom, really, I mean, we talked about Church politics, about bad bishops, about the Cardinals. But I have never, ever been to a visitation or a funeral that produced more tears than the ones I had to go to the past two days.

As we carb-loaded at the Italian restaurant, as I wished I would have ordered something sweet and alcoholic but felt odd when everyone else in the room was drinking tea or water or coke, I had only an inkling of what was coming in the next 24 hours--two more visitations, a funeral, two bishops' homilies (seriously), more dragging Maeve into vestibules, Leo laughing in the middle of the rosary, eating, eating, eating, eating. And realizing what this family has lost.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 least favorite foods

I'm not actually very picky. Most of it involves meat problems. But here goes:

1. American cheese
2. Macaroni and cheese
3. any cold cheese unless it is shredded into oblivion
4. sushi. I just can't get past the psychological "I'm eating raw meat" thing.
5. Thai food with that weird fish sauce
6. cold hot dogs and most other lunch meat, frankly.
7. Chef Boy R Dee style canned pasta of any kind with or without "meat"
8. any really really spicy food
9. smoked pork shoulder. Sorry Mike but I think you already knew.
10. Undercooked hamburger. I can eat steak that isn't well done, obviously, but hamburger? Oy vey. You just shouldn't do that. We make ours with a little binder and filler and they're awesome well-done.

Bleah. I'm going to go have something vegetarian for lunch now.

100 Species: The Second Ten

Only one photo this round. Just too busy to do that part!

11. Cornus florida: the dogwood, also the Missouri state tree. I have two in my yard, and my mother has one from the same batch. I say batch because my grandmother, you remember, the formidable Penny, dug up a bunch of dogwoods from a national forest in Virginia or Delaware or somewhere--at some point on her way home from visiting my aunt Kay. And three of them came to rest in my backyard. I moved one to the front and one to my mom's front yard. Those two haven't done so well, but the one in the back is tall and straight and pretty. And in the way of the swingset so I'd better do something about that, eh?

12. Cercis canadensis: the eastern redbud. The redbud has purple flowers (occasionally white)--it is called redbud not for the flowers, but for the leaf buds, which are indeed red. I have one in my backyard I'm allowing to live. There's also one next door in Steve's yard. Both of these are on fence lines, perhaps because birds eat the seeds, sit on the fences, and then deposit said seeds? I don't know. I also have probably four or five dozen baby redbud trees at any given time during the spring or summer. These I pull up. As Penny says, you can't have every tree.

13. Robinia pseudoacacia: Locust Tree suckers. I hate this plant. With more of my energy than really I should. Once upon a time my next door neighbor offered to cut down my sweetgum, if you remember from last time. Well, when I said no, I think he became my sworn enemy. He got really creepy and did weird things (like use a leaf blower to blow each individual sweetgum ball from his yard into mine). And then he "landscaped" his backyard in a quick fix attempt to sell the house for too much money (which he did, which was too bad for the new neighbors but really really good for me). One of the plants he chose was a black locust hybrid that I always had heard referred to as a ball locust. It was, of course, on my fence line. And produced the densest shade on earth. Darker than most caves. Not only that, but it sent up shoots or suckers off its roots to establish an entire colony of black locusts. EXCEPT THE SHOOTERS HAD THORNS. So now I have ten billion tiny trees in my lawn and they have thorns. Super! So anyway, I shaved off all the tree that crossed my fence lines to try to, well, get revenge, I guess. That was before he sold. Did I mention he also planted a trumpet vine? So aggravating. Anyway, he sold it and the winter storm that killed the American basswoods also split the hybrid locust in half. Later, the new neighbor sold the house, too, and the new neighbors, who are lovely and wonderful, took the tree down. But the roots....still...live. So I'm still fighting it. I'm thinking I will have to resort to chemical warfare this fall.

14. Betula nigra: River Birch. No fun story here. There's one behind us in Ann's yard.

15. Morus rubra: the red mulberry. Now, I took mine down. It was huge and in the wires and no fun anymore. It didn't get berries--they are either male or female and ours was luckily male--but it was still a big weed tree. Now it is a stump. I do not mourn it like I would cutting down the magnolia or the oak in my yard. Nope. Don't miss it. There are plenty of relatives I can visit if I want--Missy has one 6 doors down; there's one on the corner as well. And across the alley, it attempts to grow on almost every fenceline.

16. Ulmus americana: the American Elm. Of course, these die. Don't they all die of Dutch Elm Disease now? But they try. Oh, how they try. They're a weed in the alley--one is growing up in my parking pad, one is attempting to move in where the mulberry stood. They produce seeds so young (as opposed to, say, oaks) and disperse on the wind. I find them in my garden every spring. I hear if they grow in isolation, they have a chance. But there are way too many of them in the alley. I kill them when I see them in my yard.

17. Juglans nigra: Black Walnut. There is one two houses east. Every fall there are husks in my yard and it took me a while to figure out where they were coming from. I love and hate these trees. They smell so odd in the summer time when the nuts are on the tree--a weird spicy citrus, very pungent. But I like black walnuts just fine. And I've seen the wood, which is beautiful. Ann has some in her yard and people have told her they'd pay for the wood when she takes them down. I can see why. But I'm not going to plant one.

18. Pyrus calleryana: Bradford Pear. Another tree I could just do without, frankly. These split like crazy and when I see them, I think "suburb." They are all over suburbia. And SLU's campus. I remember one morning post-thunderstorm and so many of them had split down the middle. I wasn't sad for them. I like big robust trees with strong branches and living where they belong. This tree is from China. Just not so much my thing.

19. Fraxinus: Ash trees (these I don't know well enough to distinguish yet). My grandmother Penny? These are her favorite trees. They turn pretty colors in the fall and dump all their leaves at once. Except here in Missouri, they're starting to get a bug. A beetle. St. Louis isn't affected yet (except...I swear, as do my neighbors, that this is how the ash tree in Trisha's yard died. Green beetles and weeping sap and bam). As this tree was dying, I told my parents. Their ash trees (they have two in the back yard, lovely) were starting to weep sap, too. So my father took a syringe (and possibly a needle) and injected the trees with Joy Soap. Joy Soap. It cures everything. Their ash trees got better and all is well. I am convinced by this story that a bottle of Joy Soap (not just "Joy" but "Joysoap" like one word) can cure all your ills. Just a spoonful of Joysoap...anyway, the thing I like about ash trees, myself, is the color they turn in the fall. It's a purple-yellow. I know that doesn't make sense. But that's the color they turn.

20. Hawthorne (ditto on these). Sorry to end on a low note. I don't know much about these at all except there's one across the street and for some reason the state of Missouri thinks it's funny to have the state flower be a tree. And the state tree be a flowering tree as well. Ah well.



What is this? Try here for an explanation, or go to the tags to the right and click on 100 species.

Oh My Very Favorite

Hello,,,,
My name is Mr Jimmie Jame, a business tycoon in Kalamzoo MI State. i saw your "item" posted at craigslist which i have wanted to order something like that so i'm using this opportunity to notify you that i'm very much interested in your "item."
Furthermore i will like to let you know that i will be paying by western union auction payment (BIDPAY) and i will schedule for the pickup with FedEx Courier Service upon the payment approval from the western union auction payment bidpay.
Finally my dear, i will also like to know the condition of the "item" maybe it is still in perfect working condition because I'm purchasing it for my son like a surprise gift in africa and i never encouraged him then so now that he is having his convocation i wanna give it to him as a surprise package so i need something neat & nice-------------So get back to me with your full name, full home address & telephone number if you are interested in selling me your "item"----------Hope all this clear with you. Pls also send me the LBS( the weight) of the item together with all your information okay!!!


Remember, my "item" was math tutoring.
Sigh. I wonder if he was supposed to fill in "item" instead of leaving it like that.
But the best part: a business tycoon from Kalamazoo. Hee hee hee.

I should be in bed

I should be in bed, except this is the first moment I've had to myself in about 48 hours that didn't involve cleaning.

I should be in bed, but I want to give Mike a head start on sleep. He needs it more than I do today. I had a nap.

I should be in bed, but I keep hoping Bevin's house list, which gets updated on my computer too, will produce some fabulous new house. It won't--it's after midnight--but I keep refreshing.

I should be in bed, but really I should iron that shirt those pants that shirt first. I won't, but it's keeping me up.

I should be in bed, but I thought I'd listen to that song one more time.

I should be in bed, but I'm hoping the ibuprofen will kick in. I think it already has and this is as good as it gets.

I should be in bed except my mind won't calm down and I haven't had a real chance to process everything that's happened in the past few days.

I should be in bed. I'm going there now.

Some Years

Some years, they pass through, or you pass through them, and you don't recall much about them. 2005, for instance. Maeve was born the year before, so I'm sure that Christmas was fun, but really, I can't recall much of anything about that year. Did we camp? I think maybe. It just wasn't much to write home about.

But 2006? We had an assault on our block during National Night Out. We went on the best vacation I think I will ever take. Really. We got a new pastor at our parish. I started this blog. I started going to coffee with Ann. Tangible things. Changes and experiences--that was the year of the maggots in the diaper pail, for instance (and the summer I had shigella, and the summer of the Big Black Out).

And now it is 2009. I can't really do a year in review in September, but just so ya know, this is going to be one of those pivotal years. Sometimes in the middle of things, you just know that you're living one of those moments. The assault at the block party was one of those moments. The day the FBI and Secret Service agents were in my dining room, it was like I could step outside of myself and say "this is big, this is for real." Or when my father-in-law broke his neck and I'm standing there next to Mike staring at him with these tongs drilled into his skull to immobilize him before surgery, I remember thinking that this was when I was truly married.

Today, I think, is one of those moments. Sometimes these moments are good or poignant. And sometimes they are a kitchen floor filled with dog feces.

Because that's what today is. This tops maggots in the diaper pail any day. In 20 minutes I drop Leo at my mom's house and take Dara to the vet. I don't want to make any predictions about what will happen. I mean besides replacing the floor in my kitchen (we were going to do that with the rehab project anyway).

And on my way home from hanging out with Bevin for a minute (in total denial about what's going on in my house--but the dog is outside now) looking at another house (the one she wanted so so much had a contract put on it a half day before she got hers together--but she's only been looking for 2 days so it'll happen!). Anyway, on my way home, Mike called to tell me that his uncle Tom died last night. Tom is a priest in the Belleville diocese, assigned to DuQuoin, and his secretary found him in the living room this morning. He's Mary Helen's oldest brother. He'd had a bunch of health issues in the past decade or so but really seemed to be doing better--lost a lot of weight, more exercise--and more than that, the past 5 years or so he has really seemed to be part of the family. Granted, I've not been there long, but the past few years, Mike and I have had good conversations with him, and just last month we went to his birthday party at the new rectory (new to him, I mean). I'm so glad we went. It was a good day, normal, not one of these moments, but it was nice to have seen him now that I know.

So think of us today.

And I'm going to head to the vet and marvel at 2009 a bit. Some years.

I award you this award

Kaylen at Happy Notions has awarded me the "Kreativ Blogger" award. In spite of the Sophia-esque spelling errors, I accept. :^) I'm supposed to pass it on to seven people but I was never good at those chain letters, alas. But I will fulfill the other part of the obligation because it may or may not be amusing. As part of the award, I am supposed to reveal 7 things about myself that you may or may not already know.

1. I broke my collarbone in 10th grade while I was about to fail 10th grade from how many unexcused absences I had. My keyboarding/typing teacher didn't give me the time off while I was in a sling, though. I learned to type one-handed from a book of typing for amputees. This seemed deeply symbolic at the time, but now it means I can type and nurse the baby no problem.

2. Silverado is my favorite western. Brian Dennehy, Kevin Kline, John Cleese...how can you go wrong?

3. I very nearly became a Quaker before Maeve was born. I wasn't sure if I wanted to baptize her, even. But then our parish almost closed and I came to my senses and stayed. I have Quaker leanings, though.

4. I spent most of my free time in late high school and college playing role playing games. Mostly Amber, which is more like group storytelling than the standard AD&D dice-throwing table-reading statistics-laden eye-glazing boredom. I even went to an Ambercon, but only one. Nowadays I play mah jongg. And hand & foot when I have enough people who remember how to play.

5. "A Good Man is Hard to Find" is my absolute favorite short story. Flannery O'Connor and grace come too late.

6. In late high school I fell into the grunge movement. Every so often I'll hear Interstate Love Song or Lithium or Hunger Strike I just sigh. And then Mike looks at me and reminds me that even though we're only 18 months apart in age, I'm from a different generation.

7. If I had been a boy, my name would have been Christian.

449 Years Ago Today

On September 16, 1560, Arnaud du Tilh was hanged in front of Martin Guerre's house in Artigat, France, for impersonating Guerre for at least 4 years, taking over his estate, moving in with his wife Bertrande de Rols, fathering two children, and beginning to sell off his property for personal profit. Even his sisters thought the impostor was their brother. His wife may or may not have been in on the story--she could have been duped or she could have been a conspirator.

I just love that we know this. How many of the details survive from a generally illiterate era, through cultural and religious upheaval, one appellate judge's interest in this one weird case he heard one time in Toulouse leading him to write it down for us to be fascinated by here, today, now.

What I love most of all is that we have no idea what happened on September 17, 1560 in front of or inside of Martin Guerre's house in Artigat, France. Jean de Coras' account abruptly ends with the end of the case--the important part, as he saw it. It leaves us to speculate. And I like to speculate.

Ah, Craigslist

Ok. So I decided it was time to start tutoring again. Leo is more self-sufficient for little pieces of time, the girls are back in school, it's time. So I got my pseudo-resume together, really just a list of what I tutor and for what cost per hour, at my house, contact information, and so forth. I emailed it to the Catholic girls' school down the way. I printed out a copy to send to another Catholic girls' school nearby. But I thought, hey, I found our first piano teacher on Craigslist and she was awesome. We also found our SECOND piano teacher on Craigslist and she was horrible (we're on our third--the only reason we left the first one was time conflicts). I bought my dining room table on Craigslist. I've read some of the other want ads and thought, well, perhaps I could post something.

I've had 4 replies. Not too shabby since the lessons/tutor section is swamped with math tutor ads. Right? Well, here is a rundown of my four replies.

1. "I read your ad and I think you should use this application." It's an automated ad producer for Craigslist. As if it were so so hard to cut and paste the same information every few days that you had to sign up for a service? I didn't even click. Whatever.

2. A new version of the Nigerian Scam. My mother-in-law got this kind of message (the first time I'd heard of one like this). Someone from overseas who wants to buy your stuff and sends you a money order worth more than you're charging for it so you can send the remainder to the person who has to transport it (or, in Mary Helen's case, to the person who's going to get the dog and take it to England? What?). Then, after you've sent the money, the original money order turns out to be a fake and you're out the funds you've sent to some overseas account. I could see people falling for this when it was new and folks were selling things that were transportable and expensive. But tutoring is neither. So the scammer tried to phrase it such that he and his daughter Susan were moving to the US and he wanted her to be ready to start 10th grade so she would meet me at the library of my choice (even though the ad said very clearly that I tutor in my home) and I could tutor her three times a week for two whole months this fall. All I needed to do was send him my mailing address, gender, work history, and the total charges for all this tutoring and he would arrange payment.

Yeah.

Because any student coming to the US is going to need tutoring for two months to stay up with her class. Not to mention that he fails to bring up where in the US he is relocating to. He actually says "my company is transferring me to a large US city." How daft is that? He didn't even tailor the message to me. And he sent it to 25 different craigslist postings. Ha.

3. MY DAUGHTER NEEDS A TUTOR TOMORROW FOR A PRE-CALCULUS TEST AT SCHOOL MONDAY!!! This was received Saturday night, around 8:30 in the evening. She wanted to meet ASAP Sunday morning. I wrote back and mentioned I was busy at church Sunday morning, but if she was interested, I could fit her in sometime in the mid-afternoon Sunday. She didn't write back. Maybe she found someone. I think it was legit, but it was silly to think I'd do that at a moment's notice to cram for a test with a student I've never met.

4. My son needs a tutor. How much if he came 2 or 3 times a week? I wrote back and told the parent my rates (again. They're in the ad). Then this person sent me this message:

Hi ,

Thanks for getting back to me..Am Madden parker.I am from Atlanta,Georgia but currently based in Bremen,Germany with my wife and children..My son Ethan will be coming for an holiday in the States,and i want him to be busy throughout.

Therefore, i just want to know if he can always come to you and teach him
good things on Math ( Algebra and Geometry) every afternoon..If this is
possible,i will want you to get back to me with the cost of your teaching him for a month which can start by Middle of this month to next month...
He will be in the state in 2 weeks time...He will be coming to your Place for 1 hour each morning or afternoon..I have someone that will always drive him down to your Place,i mean a Nanny..

My Son's name is Ethan,he is 14 years old and he hardly excel in those
aspects. I will want you to calculate 1 hour per day for Monday,Wednesday,Friday
for a MONTH,and get back to me so that we can arrange on payment.Kindly get
back to me with..
TOTAL CHARGES FOR 1 MONTH THAT HE WILL BE TAUGHT 3 TIMES PER
WEEK..
Thanks and waiting to read from you soon.

Madden

1. No one in the US says "holiday." They say "vacation."
2. "He hardly excel in those aspects." What, being 14? Which aspects?
3. "Waiting to read from you soon" sounds just like an Atlanta dialect, doesn't it?
4. "teach him good things on Math." Ah, it's just too easy.
5. COME ON. Don't you guys coordinate? I already got this letter!!
6. This, and the other scam letter, seemed to demonstrate a complete lack of American geography and the vast size of the US. No one originally from Atlanta, living in Germany, is going to "holiday" for a month in St. Louis. Seriously. They need to get a fact checker/creativity consultant over in those Nigerian chat rooms. Maybe that could be my next job.

I wonder how many people they are successful with. But as for me, I'm going to stick with the high school tutor lists. It's unlikely I'll fall victim to a 409 scam at St. Elizabeth's.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 things I need to plan for

Hmm. I'm not sure if the title means "ten things I usually have to have a detailed plan in order to get done" or "ten things in the near or distant future that need some planning if they are going to be successful." I think I'll take it as the second.

1. This year's girl scout troop(s). I'm running a double brownie-junior troop this year spread over 5 schools. But I have a co-leader and a cookie manager. So it could be worse. Oh, and I have LOTS AND LOTS OF MONEY.

2. What we're going to do after 6th grade. Crap. All my back up plans are slipping away.

3. Christmas. Every year I have to plan for Christmas but this year? We bought a new HVAC system. So I really need to plan for Christmas.

4. My yard. My yard has suffered almost more than I have from a thyroid condition. MY thyroid condition.

5. In the spirit of 2, above, what we're going to do with Leo for preschool or Maeve for kindergarten and so forth. I'm thinking it will be the same place. But I'm not completely impressed with what's going on outside of Sophia's classroom (and Maeve's preschool of course!). Maybe this is something I CAN'T plan for. Because it is in flux.

6. The basement. I've been cleaning it out but I need a plan. Where will things go? How will I get rid of those spooky spiderwebs with no spiders inside them?

7. Retirement. We just switched out a bunch of old 401(k) style accounts (they were actually the non-profit version) and bundled them together and the FA called yesterday to ask what we are going to do with them. But I just have a hard time getting engaged in this. I should.

8. Losing 40 pounds. Really. Now that I'm awake, it's time to start fixing the next problem. I've fixed it before. I'd like to fix it for good.

9. How to rehab the downstairs bathroom and do it right the first time.

10. What the heck I'm going to do when Leo goes to kindergarten. I'm thinking teaching isn't the best plan. But, what, then?

Interview with Bridgett

In the spirit of Scott Simon on NPR weekend news shows...

So Maeve went back to school this week along with Sophia's second week. How did that go? You know, it was hard for her. She has a hard time adjusting her schedule, even though she thrives on routine. Getting up at 7:30 and then having to be good and attentive until pick up time at 11:30 is just really difficult at first. She was mean to one girl on Thursday according to her teacher, and then properly chastised and separated. But then the teacher told me everyone clamored to then sit with her at the table she'd been sent to. Not cool. I don't want her to be that girl, you know? But it's just something we have to work on. Being nice.

What about Sophia? This week I did a project with her whole class, a tie dye project that was a huge undertaking, really. I had groups of 9 children each day, and since she's in a mixed age class that runs from tiny first graders (almost half the class is tiny first graders, I think) all the way up to fifth graders, it was hard to fit the lesson to the kids. The older kids got it fast and did interesting work, but the really young ones were, well, really young. I had to do the rubberbands for many of them. But once outside, everybody but one boy figured out what I meant when we did the dye.

What did he do? Well, it was like he didn't understand that the rubberbands kept some of the shirt white. He dribbled little dots on the shirt, ignoring the bands entirely. So when I rinsed out his shirt at home, it was just sort of a rainbow dalmatian effect. But the others, wow, some of them turned out so cool.

Onto a related topic, how has back-to-school scheduling worked out? I think it's going to be good. Mondays is Irish dance for Sophia, followed by Kumon. For now. I'm keeping her in for the semester and we'll see if she still needs the rote practice come Christmas. Anyway, Tuesdays are free except for every other one, we'll have a girl scout meeting from 4-5. Not a big thing, really, and it's right down the street. Wednesdays are free, too, except that Sophia does sometimes see Erin for extra dance practice. Then Thursdays, though, those are going to do us in. Maybe not. Sophia has piano at 4:30 and then Maeve has dance at St. James followed by Sophia dancing at St. James. Two nights ago, which was totally my fault, we didn't eat dinner until 8:30. Next week we will eat in shifts that night only. It's crazy otherwise. Then Fridays and weekends are free. We could do dance Saturday mornings, but I think I'd rather leave them open.

How is dance? You know, we had a feis today and Sophia didn't place in any of her 4 dances--last time she placed 3rd in jig, which means she'll have to move up to Novice in January. I think this feis was more accurate, frankly, because it's only her 3rd feis as an advanced beginner. Seriously. And the really nice thing is that as we left the hotel to head home, she said, "feis's are fun to go to," and meant it. She is so good. I mean that. She's such a pure innocent kid. She didn't throw herself on the ground and have a tantrum or weep or even seem disappointed. It didn't hit me until we were headed home that this was so. We went, she danced--she was critical of her reel but otherwise felt good about what she did--and we had lemonade and coffee and now her day is free.

And Maeve? Maeve isn't competing yet, but she did start beginner class at St. James this past week. She likes it, but I don't know if she's going to stick with it. It is a very physical activity, but I think she would do better in something where she gets to smash things. Or run into other people. Like rugby.

I heard you were working on the kitchen and hoped to have the painting done last week. How did it go? It isn't done. Back to school is a busy time. I hope to get to it this week when Maeve's at school, Leo is napping, and I'm not working on a tie dye project.

How's the thyroid going? I think things are going well. Sometimes I realize I'm awake, which is a silly thing to say, but I will suddenly look around and think, wow, I'm awake. Not caffeine-induced, not hyper, not dragging my feet in a fog. I'll have been up all day, it's 10:30 at night, I'm tired, but I'm awake. I'm going for a follow up appointment this week and I'm hoping they just send me home with a prescription for what I have. I like feeling better. Normal.

Anything else worth mentioning? I'm busy moving my atrium to Therese's, I've started Bevin's Christmas knitting (today at the feis!), I've put my name out as a math tutor again. Let's see. Book club is tomorrow night at my house for a book I like pretty well. This Sunday's mass is in the park; next Saturday is our parish barbecue (where you can purchase some of my tie-dye work at the craft booth if you have babies who need onesies!). It's a busy month over all. But I feel like we're getting into our routine pretty well.

What Marriage Means to Me in a Nutshell

Mike: I woke up last night and looked at you sleeping. Amazing, you married me and here we are ten years later. I know all your stories and you know mine.

--from my 32x365 blog, now defunct but still accessible on the sidebar there -->
(this is for Mamakat's writing prompt thingy I try to do every week)



I decided I didn't really have much to add.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 things I think are cool

Cool things. Things I think are cool...define cool. Hmm.

1. GIMP. This is the free (open source? Is that what it's called?) alternative to photoshop. It does just about everything you could ever want. Except make kaleidoscopes. I can't justify buying photoshop just for that feature, though. I'll have to keep making bold attempts manualy.

2. Procion Dye. This is the dye I use for all the cotton stuff I dye (mostly tie dye projects). I also have used it on silk but it turns out different. You get deep pure color with procion. It lasts forever. It is easy to mix, easy to store, and did I mention deep color?

3. National Park Junior Ranger Programs. Sophia has done 5 of these (Dinosaur, Yosemite, Sequoia/Kings Canyon, Smokies, Rockies). I hear the Arch has a program, too. Hmm. It's a great way to learn just enough about where you're visiting, without boring you with too much information/work. Fun.

4. Vinyl clings. The girls have several vinyl wall clings in their room. There are a few in the guest room (leftover from when they lived there). And soon there will (hopefully if the girl from etsy can get her act together) be a set in the kitchen that I just cannot wait for.

5. Ponyo. This is the new Miyazaki movie about a magical fish creature that wants to be a little girl. It totally rocks. There's even an exchange about breastfeeding between Ponyo and a mother with a baby. I think what I liked best, though, is the credits at the end, which just say "We made this movie" and then has a semi-alphabetical listing of everyone who worked on the movie and each name has a little hand-drawn icon next to it. Another realistic mom character--Miyazaki is good at those--and the main character is a little boy for a change (well, and the fish girl).

6. Beverly Cleary novels. I checked the copyright on one of Sophia's before we read it the other night, and it was written in the 50s. Holy crap. I never would have guessed. Yeah, some things are dated now, I suppose (paper routes, no computers, no answering machines, etc) but so much of it is timeless (well, within the modern era--they do drive cars, for instance). It is rather clever of her to make things so neutral--and the characters, being 4 or 6 or 9 years old, aren't really affected by changes in technology, anyway. They seem very solid.

7. Bottle cutters. I want one. This little contraption creates a score line on a bottle (like a beer or wine or soda bottle) that you then heat up and rapidly cool down, thus cracking the glass along the score. Then you can use the bottoms (and tops) for a variety of crafting projects. I am so there.

8. Lampwork beads. Mary taught me how to do this. I've only done it a few times, but it is a keenly cool craft. Torches, melted glass, I mean, what could be better?

9. Breakout Bras. They are so patient with me as we try to figure out a bra size and style that doesn't make me a crazy person. Nursing bras, there just aren't a lot of options, and when your cup size is as far into the alphabet as mine is, it limits you even further. Then I found out today I've been measuring my band size wrong (I was adding 4 inches. I was always told to add 4 inches. Turns out I was wrong). Plus they have free shipping every time you order and repeat customers get 10% off. I like them. They are cool.

10. My CSA. Fair Shares totally rocks! I love them!

A year ago this weekend, Ike hits Bolivar Peninsula

Bolivar Peninsula 8 months after Hurricane Ike
Photo by accent on eclectic with a creative commons license

I need to go do something uplifting. I need to walk away from the computer...

I still carry you around

I went to JoAnn Fabric today. I was looking for wonder-under because I needed to applique some Sunbonnet Sue blocks. Yes. This is what I did today. I was standing in line with this bolt of iron-on sticky stuff and the other line--the one for the cashier--was long. Really long. Perhaps the longest I've ever seen it (and I used to work there). The two cashiers had everyone consolidated into one long line and kept calling out for the next person. At one point, about when Clarice was about to cut my order, I noticed a young couple slip themselves in front of everyone else in line when the cashier called for the next person. She (and many many others) explained that the line was a shared line--they weren't just the only smart people in the room deciding to walk up to the empty counter. They looked back at the end of the line and grimly made their way back, talking to each other in Bosnian (Serbo-Croatian). I recognize this language, although I don't speak it. Grimly they walked, grimly they looked at each other, grimly they spoke to their child in half English, half Bosnian. Grim. They were purchasing minky dot fabric, obviously something for the little girl with pierced ears standing between them. But she, too, looked grim.

Being an immigrant/refugee from Bosnia cannot be anything envious, truly. Most Bosnians here in St. Louis, from what I gather, have been here a decade or more. So this little girl was most likely born here in St. Louis. These two have lived here a long time--the mother was younger than me (I think), so she probably arrived as a teenager.

It was one of those moments that made me sort of telescope back into time. My German ancestors are migrants--they came here with a plan, with money, with a priest in tow. They bought up land in Missouri and raised kids who married their neighbors from back in Germany. It would be like Mary and Brent and us and Trisha and Eric and so forth packing up and sending Fr. John on ahead to wherever to scope out the best place for us to settle down and start a vineyard. But, and I know I think about them a lot, but I REALLY DO, so I'm going to write it anyway, those Irish of mine came over here in the 1840s and early 1850s. They were running for their lives, a few at a time, no family groups. No plan, no familiar friends, no money.

They married each other, like I assumed about this couple in the fabric store. They had children. But, for instance, just to take one line, even though Edward wound up owning his own bar and living obviously better than he had as a child at home in Ireland, he still committed suicide in his early 50s by ingesting rat poison (a favorite method of the time). His wife, the first Bridget Blake, and he had two sons they'd left behind in KC to come back to East St. Louis to start this saloon. The one son, my grandfather's grandfather, Edward, was a bricklayer and lived in a 3 room house with more people than is worth mentioning. Grim. And life was grim.

But then Edward's son (also Edward)? He lived on the south side with Anna, had four kids, worked as a chauffeur. Anna was the first non-Irish married into the line. Their children--well, my grandfather lived a hard working man's life; one sibling was a drunk who couldn't manage to keep her kids fed. And then my dad's generation. He's done well, but he has a pantry full of canned goods that mystify me and my sisters. Most of his brothers have failed to incorporate themselves into society very well. One is (or recently was) on the lam for drug trade. Another is a janitor and a cook. One is probably going onto permanent disability soon. His sisters have done better, but some of their kids (my generation) really haven't. Me, I think I'm doing ok. My siblings, some of my cousins.

My point here (if it's at all conceivable that anyone is still reading) is as I stared at the couple move silently to the end of the line, scanning the room with--I can only keep coming back to the word "GRIM"--expressions on their faces, I wondered about their daughter. Or their grandchildren. Or great-grandchildren. At what point do refugee families finally get it together for good and there aren't any throwbacks to things they didn't witness but still somehow carry in their hearts? I have more of my grandfather than this damned nose; I have more of his grandmother than I probably should admit. When do we start feeling at home, anyway?

3rd grade wisdom

Sophia now has a blog. But since she is not of the age to really have a blog, it is by invitation only. If you are interested in reading her blog (I need to, like, know who you are...), which is a scintillating piece of writing thus far, send me an email with your email address included and I'll send you an invitation. My email, I realize is not obvious here. So I'll provide that:

hickory.hardscrabble@gmail.com

So far it's one photo and one sentence. But she is interested and that is something.

Funerals are designed to make you cry

Seriously. Yes, I know that's obvious. Today's funeral was so hard, probably the hardest I've ever been to, and that includes the 3rd grader who was struck by a car when I was teaching at St. Pius, and the kindergartner who died in that 21-people-in-a-minivan accident when I was teaching at Henry. Old people's funerals aren't hard for me. My aunt Maria's was one of the best ones I've ever attended, and it happened during the 2006 blackout and therefore in a chapel room at Ortmann's funeral home instead of at the church (which had no electricity). But it was a small funeral and we would have been swallowed up by All Souls Church. Grandmothers, grandfathers--Mike's grandfather's funeral was simply amazing, well, the visitation the night before was the part that struck me. I can still remember how much my feet hurt in those heels, talking with my sister on the phone on the porch of the funeral parlor, watching the line to get in snake around the block.

Those aren't hard. This one was really hard. The homily was hard. The singing--beautiful (his mother is in the choir and I think everyone was there), but dang it, "How Excellent" makes me cry when it's sung on a normal Sunday. Oy. The rain pounding on the tile roof, the familiar Catholic rituals, the hockey coach's eulogy (thank God for the eulogy, because the homily was stark--this young man committed suicide and it had to be brought up, I know, but it was, well, stark).

I have two photos of him from when he was in my classroom--I wasn't much of a photographer back then. Too busy teaching. But there's one of him planting stuff in the church garden and one of several of his classmates with him in my room, working with math manipulatives on the floor. I think I remember having to reteach that whole class the concept of place value in 5th grade.

But at the visitation, there were boards of photographs of him and the things he did. Not just boy scouts and hockey. He had a social network of a somewhat stunning size for someone so young. The church was almost filled for his funeral. And yet it didn't keep him here.

I keep thinking about the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, "Prayer to Persephone". All week long I keep repeating to myself:

Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."

And then I cry again. I am astonished by how much his death has struck me. He probably would be, too.

More Photos! From Riverview Trail!

Here are ones from the trail itself. These are all taken on the way home, after the turn around point--I put the camera in the trailer instead of leaving it around my neck for the trip up, which was a good thing because the whole trail, except when you are obviously descending from the top of the levee, for instance, is a slight incline. And we were against the wind the whole time. Seriously. About mile 6, I didn't like Mike too much (he really wanted to do this trail). But by mile 9, we turned slightly and it was ok. The way home, though, was superb. We flew across what looked like straight-aways, but were probably slight downhills, and the wind was behind us, so even the hills, two of which were pretty awful, weren't so bad. So I had the camera out and clicked when I could. For those of you in Australia or Vermont or Houston, it probably doesn't matter anyway. But for the readers sitting in south St. Louis, I advise parking at Laclede's Landing and heading north. Seeing what I have here in opposite order.
Heading west on the chain of rocks bridge

Yes, that's a bend in the middle of the bridge. Imagine this as a two lane car traffic route.

The river is high.

Hall Street is on the other side of this junkyard. Huge junkyards here.

I once asked where granite curbs go when they take them out and replace them with concrete. I guess this is where they go.

That would be a wild turkey.

Mike and Sophia on the homestretch.

I love this tandem trail a bike thingy we have.

That is a big pile of salt.

About to head under one of the railroad bridges over the Mississippi north of downtown.

I have often wondered what this building was used for originally and why it still stands.

So that's our trip. Now I have to get this baby back to sleep. I hate teething.

An Open Letter to Sophia's School

Dear School,

I love you. I do love you, even if the look on my face every morning when I am forced to park and escort my 8 year old 40 steps into the classroom does not express my love very well. My 8 year old, who asks permission for everything, even something as simple as turning a light on a dusk, knows how to walk from my car door down the few steps to the front door of the school, and then on down the hallway not long enough to do a cartwheel in to the coatroom of her classroom. Instead, I must park a half block away, unload not only the 4 year old sister but also the 7 month old brother and walk into the school to scrawl my name on a sign in sheet and walk right back out to go home.

Sure, not a big imposition, School, but come December or January, it will be. A toddler in a big snowsuit-style contraption in and out of the car for a hike into the warm school (the warm school probably filled with flu germs) and then back out to the now-cold car? That will be so much fun!

But I love you. I love you even though you've decided the best way to do pick up at the school is to double park on a one-way street just barely wide enough to maneuver around another car. Maybe that's not your fault--it's an awkward location. And so I love you still.

I love you through your condescending notes home. Not from your teachers, but from the administration, telling me what I should or should not feed my child for lunch. And your passive aggressive female communication style means you can't bring yourself to just ban certain undesirable items (like oatmeal cookies or juice, the shame!). No, you must try to make parents feel guilty for their food choices by reminding them to "check those nutrition labels!" Now, it could be that some parents at the school are so daft they can't figure out that an apple is healthier than a Hershey bar. But have you met Sophia? Have you seen her muscular calves? How about her tall graceful form without extra body fat? Have you considered that perhaps I do know what I'm doing and I can gauge whether she can have chocolate chip cookie after her lunch of carrots, grapes, a tortilla, sunflower butter, chopped sweet pepper, and juice?

I love you even though in the same letter home that tried to make me feel bad about the food I feed my skinny kid, you told me I'd better start collecting those boxtops for education labels so the school can earn more money. Have YOU read any of the labels on THOSE food items? Or considered what Nestle has done worldwide in the realm of infant feeding? But we'd better eat that hamburger helper and pizza rolls and clip those tops for you.

I love you even though you've discriminated in speech against those of us who live outside your boundaries. Maybe this year you'll be better. I keep hoping!

I love you even though you make us provide toilet paper in a public school.

I love you in spite of the fact that you have no clue how you come off to so many people in the neighborhood and in the school community itself. I love you because you do a good job in the classroom.

You have helped Sophia become a good learner. Her teacher last year, who is continuing with Sophia this year, is amazing. Absolutely amazing. Maeve's teachers are wonderful and caring. Please keep this up. And figure out what the heck is going on in kindergarten. Because otherwise, my love will fade. I won't be able to stay with you anymore.

But until then, all these personality quirks are just that. And I'll just take some deep deep breaths and smile.

Kids are adorable in the late summer sun

This past Saturday, we took Riverfront Trail from Laclede's Landing to the Chain of Rocks Bridge. We rode across the Mississippi River and stopped in the parking lot on the Illinois side. Mike took a few pictures.

It was the longest bike ride we've done with kids, at 24 miles. The whole of Grant's Trail was the second, and it's only 16 miles round trip. We're going to try to do Grant's this weekend sometime. Riverfront again in October as the leaves change, I think.

Leo's Quilt in Process

Here is Leo's quilt. It's further along than this now. It's sewn together all the way in a big circle, for one thing, pinned down to the background fabric (the same as the dark brown in the spokes or whatever you want to call them). The background is only an inch wide at the tangent points and so I'm going to add several coordinating borders in thin strips, probably another foot wide on each side. It will be big enough to throw across the top of a double bed (I know because that's where it's pinned, waiting to be finished) but square instead of really, well, bed shaped.

I am inordinately proud of this.

The sister quilt (or probably more appropriately, brother quilt) can be found in this post.

First day of 3rd grade and I'm eating toast

Sophia has had a good start to the year. I know this because she's had nothing to say after school, but she's intent on getting homework completed (when I say "homework" I mean studying some math facts and reading for 15 minutes (or being read to)--I LOVE that this is all they have). She's tired after school and that's good. She's somewhat more pliable. Not that she's difficult, but she was getting headstrong as summer drew to a close.

She's becoming more independent. She has never walked out of the house without brushing her hair this week. She is choosing her own uniform, which I know is a limited choice to begin with, but she's focused on the skirts this week for whatever reason. Perhaps Dora or Emma is wearing them. I prefer jumpers myself--keeps the shirts clean a bit longer, for one thing--and she did until this week. Perhaps it has to do with heat. Not that there is any--note the fleece sweatshirt. It was 65 when we left the house Monday morning.

School is, of course, already irritating me. But I think I will try to brighten Julie's day and write an open letter to them instead of putting that stuff here.

Photo Friday: Urban Landscape

Ok, not really a landscape. A streetscape. I suppose.

A dozen things that make me happy right now

Because I have to start somewhere. And ten is passe.

1. Going thrift shopping with my sister Bevin. We did this Thursday, down at the new Value Village in Fenton. I almost bought a sewing machine table for $19, machine intact. But I skipped it. She got a set of craft books from the '70s that were informative and kitschy bizarre at the same time.

2. Making connections for people. A pregnant woman in our parish asked me the other day about lead testing for her house--I didn't have the answer right then, but I was able to find it at, of all places, the International Festival this weekend. Lead Safe St. Louis had a booth. So I got to make a call to her today and get her the information.

3. Speaking of the International Festival, folk dance makes me happy. Anybody who takes the time to put on strange costumes and learn dance steps that have nothing, really, to do with their regular lives anymore, and do it on stage? I love them. We saw Mexican folk dance, a beautiful little trio of Indian dancers, Irish dance (of course), and so on. I could have sat at that stage all day. Watching the young North African women standing near the stage as they watched Sophia's dance school's older girls dance in hard shoes, how astounded they were at the moves--it was so good to share these things with so many different people from our city.

4. I've decided I like Riverfront Trail. We did the whole thing last Saturday. I'll post pictures later, maybe tomorrow, but I like it because:

a) you only cross a road once, to avoid the water treatment plant, and then once more to get back on the river side of Riverside.
b) it is long and parts of it involve hills straight from Dante's Inferno and therefore there aren't many people on the trail
c) the only other people are "serious" bikers. No walkers, no dogs, no other families to dodge
d) hey, you get to cross the Mississippi River on the old Route 66 bridge.

5. Going to a church meeting on Wednesday night (which was frustrating but not the point of this) and seeing Ruth and seeing that yes, she does seem to be doing better--she's been fighting cancer for over a year, I think, but is in remission and is starting to look and sound and be like who I remember she was before.

6. Oh the weather outside is delightful.

7. At the zoo Wednesday with Maeve, I heard another mom with a stroller and a preschooler in tow say to her daughter, "see that little girl is walking with her mom and listening." We were a POSITIVE example for someone else. Finally on an upswing.

8. That film at the art museum right now called Migration (Empire) with all the wild animals in cheap motel rooms. It's only there until the 7th of September but Maeve wanted to see it again. So we did. It is both as amusing and as dark as it sounds like it might be.

9. Again and always, all that free stuff here in St. Louis.

10. Leo was on all fours two days ago and pushed himself into a seated position. This makes me happy because he was so dang proud of himself. But it kind of scares me as well. On the other hand, all his vocalizations are raspberries and happy shrieks. He's like this weird freakish blend of Sophia and Maeve. Like Provel cheese or something. Just kidding.

11. The "feud" between two neighbors over which college football flags to hang from their porches. The Mizzou flag disappears and is replaced with OU. Then it comes down, and the next day the flag-stealer's house is adorned with black and gold crepe paper. There are no teenagers involved. These people are older than I am. And it makes me happy to watch them be dorks. Did I say that?

12. Maeve woke up hard from a nap this afternoon and trudged upstairs. I asked her what was up and she said, with that hazy childhood sleepy look on her face, "I came upstairs to be with you."

Just Have Nothin Else To Say

A young man from my parish died Sunday night/Monday morning (I've got conflicting news reports, meaning emails...). I taught him at the school; I was a very small part of his eagle scout project. I know his mother and his family somewhat--his mom because, again, I taught him math and religion and art, and since then we've been in connecting Venn (Euler for my brother) diagrams at the parish.

But for the most part he and his family are "people at my church"--not close coffee friends or confidants or neighbors or what have you. I've had my share of disagreements with his mother in those Venn/Euler diagram intersections, in fact. She's made me cry and I've had to apologize (different moments in time) and life goes on because that's what being a geographic parish is all about--we are there because we want to be there, yes, but we're also there because that's where we live. We don't travel far and wide to find the parish that "fits" us. We make the parish we have the parish we want it to be. Or at least the best parish it can be.

But he was approximately 21--I get hazy with these youngsters as they grow up and go to work or college and so forth. I know Rachel my long term tutoring student has now graduated from college; he was two years behind her but I think only a year younger. So maybe he was 20. I don't know. I don't know why I'm wasting your time thinking about that part. But anyway, he was younger than my youngest sibling. And I knew him when he was in 5th and 6th grade sitting in my math class not putting enough effort behind his intellect (a problem I often had in middle school myself) or arguing with me about the culture of the Old Testament or being a sullen teenager or laughing at my jokes before anyone else figured out my sense of humor.

And now I'm going over every interaction I've ever had with him (obviously not the day to day mundane life of math class) and realizing that's it. Handing him my recommendation letter for his eagle scout project (in which he finished what I started, basically, on a parish project I had to walk away from for my own mental health years before). Chatting with him about his niece in the back of church. Telling him I really didn't care if he turned in any homework or not (but don't flaunt it).

It could be that I've lost students before. But I don't know it. I saw this young man off and on at church for 11 years--as long as I've been at the parish--and his death is tragic.

I've been working on Leo's quilt, which is going to spend some time hanging on the wall above his bed (meaning above mine). I shamelessly made it to match the colors in my room because I knew this would be true. It's a complicated wheel/Italian mosaic pattern that is paper-pieced and made up of 245 pieces--so far. I was working on it yesterday when I got the first email. I went back in and started working again until I realized I was focusing on this fabric and thinking about this young man and I didn't want that dang thing to hang on my wall with him all caught up in the stitches (as Gail put it last month sometime). So it waits for me, for later.

And I just have nothin else to say right now. It's kind of a weird feeling. I'll have more to say later. Maybe even tomorrow or Thursday. Just not now.

Ten on Tuesday: Ten Things I Hope For

Ok, not a real ten on Tuesday, but somehow I got out of synch and I'm a week ahead. So I made up my own. Hopes and worries are intertwined. Some of these are anonymous-ish.

1. I hope my kids navigate their way into adulthood.
2. I hope Maeve doesn't have another seizure.
3. I hope Maeve's asthma stays under control.
4. I hope Leo continues to hone his mad cute skillz.
5. I hope Sophia's school year goes as well as her summer did.

6. I hope the test results are negative.
7. I hope she finds true love.
8. I hope she finds her way.
9. I hope he sees the light. Someday.
10. I hope nothing else bad happens.