Writing Prompt: What I Know For Sure

From MamaKat, by way of Texan Mama (to the right there-->). What I Know For Sure.

This isn't what I know for sure right now. I've had moments of complete clarity, of really knowing something, you know, for sure. Right now I do know some things. But that phrase reminded me of something from long ago.

I was a freshman in college, living in one of the dorms at the college just north of us with the same name as my city, run by an order of priests with lots of money. And that was a year I learned many things, many things for sure and forever.

I lived on the fourth floor, and that's where I met Mike. He lived next door. I also knew a whole slew (that's a pun) of other folks whom I will give random pseudonyms and later forget which is which. But when I spent time with other freshmen, it was with Tom and the Other Tom; Karen and Dora and Belinda and Caitlyn; my future roommate Misti and her current roommate Rina. We played rummy and rook and watched Guiding Light and 90210, went to dinner at 4:30 as if we lived in an old folks' home, and had a good routine. Most of the time it was Misti, Tom, Tom, me, and Belinda, but the other few were there often enough to count.

Things were good. The salad days were here again. Or something. Life was fine. We took classes and hung out and it was like being in high school, with similar cares and worries and plans. And no parents to tell us what to do, of course. Or anyone, really.

After first semester, Karen's roommate dropped out and went home--she'd never really been a part of our group, actually, with her own friends. So Karen had a single. I did too--my first roommate and I had almost come to blows--wait, who am kidding, we hardly talked--she moved out because I was tired of living with her AND Chuck the Boyfriend. Which is what she should have done (chuck the boyfriend). In January Eudora moved in as my roommate (an aspiring vampire: she was fun) but we led separate lives (obviously).

Playing cards and watching soap operas EVERY DAY means you get to know people pretty well. Nobody came to my room (Eudora territory) or Karen's (she had nothing in there after her roommate left--just her bed and clothes and books). We spent most of our time in Misti and Rina's room with the TV and carpet and microwave popcorn. Sometimes we'd go down to Belinda and Caitlyn's--they had a couch and a bigger TV--but usually we hung out at Misti's.

Some time in January Tom and I knocked on Karen's door to ask her for help with a calculator. She came out into the hall, shaky, smoking a cigarette. We sat down in the hallway together and then realized she was bleeding. She had jeans on, but no socks or shoes, and the blood was trickling down the back of her calf and starting to pool on the ground. We made our exit pretty quickly, pretending she'd answered our question, but really not, escaping to Misti's room to commiserate. Yes, it was blood. What the hell?

Misti knew. Karen was a cutter. Self-injurer. But cutting's what she did--she would take a razor to her leg, and not to shave, but to make herself bleed all over the floor. That was the moment I knew for sure that there was much I didn't know. I might have encountered the Klan in Georgia, I might have been a witness in an assault case in Texas, I might have uncles who sell drugs and a grandfather in a motorcycle gang but there was much I didn't know.

About a month later, Misti and the dorm director are rushing past to the elevator. As I turn the corner, Karen and Rina are there, too, with Rina banging on the call button. I ask what's up and the dorm director tells me it's none of my business. Well then. I head down the other wing to find Caitlyn and Belinda. Karen had saved up a bunch of pills--sleeping pills, anti-depressants, stuff she took for an ulcer, some painkillers, and had taken them all. They looked nervous. I could dig it. Tom and the two of them took his car to the university hospital, leaving the other Tom and I there--I knocked on Mike's door and he drove us to the ER.

When we got there, the dorm director asked Mike, Tom and I what the hell we were doing there. She had a way about her. Karen was our friend, I tried to explain. She took us to the little break room where Rina and the others were sitting. And we all sat numbly while the television droned on with Latoya Jackson Psychic Friends until this self-assured blond woman walked through the door to talk to us.

We thought for some reason she'd come for information about Karen. We started sharing what we knew and she cut us off. Other people would handle Karen. She wanted to talk about us. Tom and I talked about the cutting and Misti mentioned how lonely Karen had felt since her roommate left. The other Tom had kind of started dating Karen, kind of, but that wasn't going well. People tried to come up with things to tell this woman and at one point she turned right to me.

"Bridgett, are you feeling any self-blame?"

"No," I answered.

"Are you sure?"

I glanced up at Latoya. "That's the one thing I know for sure."

She didn't believe me. But I was telling the truth.

Mike drove Caitlyn, Tom, Rina, and Belinda home. It was dawn when I took Misti and led her out to her car. She had me drive. We drove to her parents' house in North County and then back to the dorm for breakfast. We didn't say much. The one thing she did ask: "Do you think it hurts?" I answered with the same flat honesty:

"Hell yes it hurts." I knew that for sure, too.

She was silent. What I didn't know, and wouldn't know for several more weeks, was that the smug blond woman should have been asking Misti about self-blame. When Misti drank enough that one night, alone, enough to get alcohol poisoning, then once again I knew that for sure.

I moved out that May, driving with my father down to Texas, contemplating my future. Would I stick it out the next year with a new major and a depressed alcoholic roommate who blamed herself, or would I cut my losses and stay home and marry the high school boyfriend and go to some Texas school and do something. Whatever.

I didn't decide all the way until July. Mike called. He'd broken things off with Vanessa for good.

And then I knew something else for sure.

Something Seems Familiar Here

Caroline Gorman b 1803, Ireland, emigrated to Pennsylvania
Anne Pearse b 1776, Ireland, emigrated to Pennsylvania
Ellen Magner b 1830, Ireland, emigrated to Illinois
Patrick Magner b 1835, Ireland, emigrated to Illinois
Thomas Ryan b 1859, Ireland, emigrated to Illinois
Michael Bambrick b 1830, Ireland, emigrated to Illinois
Ellen Bambrick b 1835, Ireland, emigrated to Illinois
Timothy O'Sullivan b 1816, Ireland, emigrated to Kentucky
Joseph Sweeney b 1855, Ireland, emigrated to Missouri
Jane Ellis b 1792, Ireland, emigrated to Kentucky
John Aiken b 1758, Northern Ireland, emigrated to Pennsylvania
Mary McQuigg b 1755, Northern Ireland, emigrated to Pennsylvania
Hannah Forsythe b 1775, Northern Ireland, emigrated to Ohio
Margaret Marrion b 1834, Ireland, emigrated to New York
Mary Healy b 1800, Ireland, emigrated to New York
John Thomas Cody b 1792, Ireland, emigrated to New York
James Donnelly b 1825, Ireland, emigrated to, you guessed it, New York
Mary Dwyre b 1800, Ireland, emigrated to Missouri
Bridget Kidney b 1835, Ireland, emigrated to Missouri
Edward Blake b 1835, Ireland, emigrated to Missouri

Obviously every family line has its dead ends. Obviously. At some point records cease, in every family. Mike's one Italian line, for instance, ends with a smack in Torino in 1873. It is unlikely I'll be able to find out more. Most of my Germans, and Mike's, go back pretty far because they were Lutheran or Catholic and those folks kept good notes of marriages, baptisms, and burials. Surprisingly far, actually, considering that it's all in this churchy German Latin mess.

And Mike's French Canadian roots are so clear and go back to the beginnings of French Canada. Fascinating. You do have to guess at some of the French (for instance, I kept looking for a Stephen and it dawned on me that he was Etienne).

I have some English--some folks from Jamestown, actually, who came over from England at the beginnings of our nation. I could join all those silly societies: DAR, Jamestown Society. Not Mayflower but still. Sophia and Maeve could join the Daughters of the Confederacy, too (my Civil War soldiers were Illinois Union, but Mike has one in the Missouri CSA battalion). Anyway, I can trace back to England just fine. Some extrapolation on the Grosvenors, sure, and those Dawes, those confounded Dawes, hide from me. But the English are easy to trace because England kept pretty good records and they're all, wait for it, in English.

Irish records, too, should be in English, or Latin, I suppose. But things are eerily silent. I can cross the Atlantic back to France, to Germany, to England, but I can't get to Ireland. All my Irish were diaspora from the famine; most of Mike's, minus that Thomas Ryan and Joseph Sweeney, were too. So their immigration notes are sketchy and condescending, and give you nothing but "Ireland" as their place of origin. But with names like Kidney and McQuigg you'd think I'd be able to find something--at least narrow it down. But there's this gap.

Turns out, and you all probably already know this but I'm fuzzy on my Irish history, the penal laws of Ireland helped create this gap--for 200 years, up until about 1830, Catholicism was suppressed (and Presbyterianism, to a lesser degree, so my few Northern Irish don't fare any better), and records were kept on the sly if they were kept at all. Baptism, marriage, death--those staples of genealogy, the rungs of the ladder that lead me back to almost the Reformation in Germany--are missing. So, sure, I can pretty much guess that my Blakes are from Galway and my Dwyres are from Tipperary and the Aikens and McQuiggs are from Antrim, but that's as good as it's going to get.

As much as I want to, I will never know if Bridget Kidney's parents were really Dwyres, or if they were Kidneys, or if her mother married twice or what the heck is going on there. I can surmise that Edward Blake's father was probably a Denis or a Richard, but unless Edward is the oldest child, it's unlikely I'll ever find a marriage record.

And I've decided that's ok--genealogy is a hobby, a mystery to solve, and there's an aspect of sorting and organization that appeals to my brain. But as my friend Tom said a few weeks ago on Facebook, genealogy is based on the misguided assumption that no one ever lies (illegitimacy, under the radar adoption, name changes, crimes covered up, and so on). I KNOW FOR A FACT that many of the folks I have solid information on lied through their teeth to census takers and priests and government officials. And those are only the ones in the last 120 years or so.

So I've got this handful of names and a handful of stories and things I can shiver about when I lie awake at night (urban poverty, having 10 of your 12 children die before you do, abandoning your children in an orphanage and going to Texas, getting married the day your child dies so he won't be illegitimate in the church record, killing a man in your bar and committing suicide the next week, and on and on and on). And that's probably enough. It is enough.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 Reasons to Use the Public Library

Well, duh. Although in this day and age, maybe fewer people do use it. I don't know.

1. It's free. Or at least cheap (I rent books, more than borrow them)

2. You can go and get a thousand ideas about what you want to do to your dining room walls (for instance) without paying a dime.

3. Summer reading program usually yields good results (for instance, Cardinals tickets)

4. It is a blast of cold air on a summer day. Walk to the library, relax in the AC for an hour, then walk home and get a lemonade at Bread Co. on your way home.

5. Kids books add up and most of them can be found at the library.

6. When I belonged to a book club, it was nice not to have to clutter up my shelves with crappy books I hated. If I really liked it, I knew I could go buy it later.

7. Interlibrary loan. Where we live, our library has connections all over the place. If the book is out there somewhere, they can find it. For a dollar. I have borrowed obscure Benedictine texts and do-it-yourself how-tos written by publish-yourself authors.

8. Videos, but at our library, caveat emptor: they have higher late fees that accumulate quickly. So we rarely do this, but we do borrow books on tape, which do not incur large late fees.

9. I can escape after dinner every month or so and just go there. I'm not tempted to buy anything, the lighting is good, and I can browse through magazine titles and ignore the fact that I have obligations on the other side of the walls.

10. It is a neutral meeting ground if you're worried about someone coming to your house for tutoring (for example). It is quiet, you don't have to buy anything, and you can sit and work together undisturbed for hours.

Our Own Try-It: Self-Defense

And here is our brownie version (pretty much for Maeve...). Complete 4 activities:

1. What is an emergency? What are the most important things to remember in an emergency? With a partner, roleplay a few emergency situations and how you should react. Suggestions:
-You get lost in a grocery store
-A stranger grabs your hand in a crowded place
-On the playground, two children get into a fight

2. What is 911? For what sort of emergencies should you call 911? What three types of emergency responders can be reached through 911?

3. What is a martial art? What are they used for? Why would someone choose to learn a martial art? Be able to show three moves you can use to defend yourself.

4. Bullies are not respectful of others and sometimes can even hurt other people. What are some ways to avoid bullies or to keep them from bothering you? Have you ever been a bully to someone and made them do things they didn't want to do? What would have been better to do in that situation?

5. What is the buddy system? Why is it important? Does your troop follow the buddy system at meetings and events? Think of some situations when the buddy system would be most important.

6. Besides learning a martial art, what are other ways that people prepare for self-defense? Interview 4 adults or teenagers about how they defend themselves (or how they are ready to defend themselves if they need to).

Our Own Badge: Self Defense

My junior troop has designed their own self defense badge. We're using the actual physical badge I found from somewhere in California, and no, we're not going through official channels because that isn't the point anymore. I'm also going to do a brownie try-it with similar activities but I haven't designed the requirements yet (although I picked up one of the try-its from California, just in case).

To complete badge: Complete 6 activities. You must complete the 2 activities with the * by the number, and then 4 activities of your choice.

*1. Explain what to do in different emergency situations, such as:
-Stranger asks/tells you to get in a car
-Stranger grabs your hand
-You witness someone being hurt or attacked

2. Whom do you call in an emergency in order of priority? Do different emergencies have different responses? Is 911 available in your area? What information should you know when you call?

3. Be able to describe the basic tenets of your chosen martial art. How does it differ from other practices? Why did you choose to learn it? How does one progress?

4. Give a brief history of your martial art. Where is it from geographically? How long has it been practiced? What events brought it to its current popularity or its current form?

*5. Demonstrate basic self defense techniques
-Against grab
-Against push
-Against punch

6. Demonstrate three basic defensive hand techniques and three basic offensive hand techniques.

7. Demonstrate three basic kicks

8. Name any special clothing or equipment worn or used in the practice of your martial art. For what purpose is it worn or used?

9. Attend a martial arts competition as a participant or spectator. How do individuals compete? What sort of events are available?

10. Martial arts often figure prominently in movies. Either on your own or with an adult with more experience, determine the differences between actual martial arts practice and how it is portrayed in a movie of your choice. Is the movie accurate? If not, in what ways is it different from reality?

Girl Scout No-Information

I went to council today to ask a few questions that got answered, ask a few questions that were answered with a thin-lipped almost-smile, and to pick up the end of the year awards for my junior troop.

It's a lot of badges, because I didn't do a December awards day. They did a lot of stuff this year, mostly in preparation for their Bronze Award, which between 15 and 17 of the girls (out of 20) will be earning this year. That's exciting, it is. And my questions about the Bronze award were the ones that were answered: I just turn in paperwork and purchase the pins. There's no lead time needed, no approval. I approve the project and we do it and turn it in and that's that. Whew.

But I had other questions...mostly about the Big Change coming to Girl Scouting. The badges and try-its (little girl badges) are all being phased out. Some of them over in their bins already have a "discontinued" sign above them. So I asked the folks running the place if the badges that do not have a "discontinued" sign would be continuing?

"No," is the answer. They're probably tired of answering, but if they wanted to be left alone they should either not work in a shop or post the information in clear language, and not in the "It's so exciting what's coming next WHEEE" language on the poster in the corner that I was pointed towards.

Everything is going away. Bye-bye. I'm trying not to be afraid of change, but the other changes they've made since, oh, 1955, have all been for the worse, so I'm not too hopeful.

So you can't buy current program books at all, including the cadette book we kind of need to get our girls started as CADETTES next year (4 or 5 of my girls will be cadettes after they bridge this May). So how do I do that, without materials? I try to word this diplomatically because I know the folks at our local shop have nothing to do with GSUSA.

I'm basically told to do what I want for bridging, which is usually a multi-step process involving future and current level work. Ok...but when are the new books going to be available?

"September of this year."

I nod, taking that in. September. Because that's a perfect time to start planning, instead of over the summer when my coleader and I both have time. But I don't add this editorial comment and instead help count out the badges that I'm glad I thought to pick up in March instead of waiting until May when they'd all be low on stock or gone forever.

Again wondering why there isn't a better option. Again wondering what it would take to do my own and just use Girl Scouts for insurance purposes. Again wondering if I'll be able to hold out through years of bull in order for Maeve to get to the good stuff (caving, archery, horses, trips). And, sighing, I check out a songbook and a book of icebreakers and games from the resource room and head back home.

A little bird told me so

We spent the night out at Shaw Nature Reserve: 13 girls, 2 adults, and myself. We did a night hike and in the morning after breakfast, we did an orienteering project.

We've been before: last March we did a wetlands project with the same outdoor educator (I want Jillian's job when I finally grow up). I remember the wind, the cold, the frozen numb feeling on the fronts of my thighs through my jeans. This year looked about the same, actually, probably worse.

It was 78 on Monday, no joke, and by Thursday the temperature was dropping into the 30s. We went to the Arch on a school field trip Thursday and I came to grips with the fact that the merino wool cable-knit sweater was not in fact going to cut it for the weekend.

I packed my German army coat (Bundesrepublik, not, well, older than that) that cuts any wind, Mike's blaze orange hunting mittens that are fingerless gloves underneath, and my scratchy red wool hat. Wool socks, extra jeans, the whole easy winter day gear. It was going to drop below freezing at night and, wait for it, it was going to snow on Saturday.

The night hike was good; Jillian knows how to keep these kids engaged and is so much fun to adventure with. I'm too familiar with my girls to maintain the distance required to really teach for so long...

We stayed up afterward and played bananagrams and card games until we came to terms with the fact that it was 10:15 and dang it, we would be up before 7. But I will say that once the girls were in bed, all in one room in beautiful wooden bunks, I turned off the lights at 10:45 and that was the end of the noise.

I made breakfast instead of forcing my girls to do so--we had a schedule to keep and I didn't feel like nagging. French toast, fruit. After breakfast, Jillian led us through the junior "Finding Your Way" badge, basically maps, compasses, and GPS units. We took the GPS out on the trail, partnering up, and found our way from station to station. It was good hiking, and as we walked along, it started to snow. It started to thunder, and then to snow. If it had been 20 degrees instead of 31, we probably would have had a foot. It was a lot of snow in the air.

We're St. Louisans, and this was starting to wear everyone down. Not just today, but the whole long winter of ice and snow. Jillian said that last year, she'd gotten her first tick in February...but that this wasn't a problem this year, of course. Of course. It's been so much, and to be the end of March and the snow coming down, starting to stick to the ground?

Jillian took us down to a river overlook, a small tributary of the Mississippi called the Meramec, and we all looked. "High as I've seen since I've worked here," she said, an understatement for what we may be experiencing later this summer all through this biggest watershed in North America. Flood's coming, I said to Tara, and she nodded. We noticed the high water mark from 1982. "Where's 1993?" we wondered, and then, joking, said it was probably up at the cabins where we'd been staying. But not joking too much.

We continued the hike, and at some point, I realized a girl was whistling, and then I recognized what she was whistling: Oh sweet Canada, Canada, Canada. I called out the words: "Who's whistling that?" It was Bree, from down the street. She knew the song. We talked about bird song mnemonics a bit and laughed about Who cooks for you? Well, today Bridgett cooks for you. I tell Tara she can hear the white throated sparrow this spring, that he sings before he heads home to Canada: April, May, we'll hear him. Spring seems far away and full of worry about water.

Later in the day, I scrape snow off my windshield, my four girls packed in the car ready to head back to the city. As I attach the bungee cords to secure the cooler on our little hitch trailer thing, I hear it for real: Oh sweet Canada, Canada, Canada.

I open the side door. "Everybody quiet!" I say in a rush. They are. The white throated sparrow sings again. Yes, there's snow falling but the redbuds are blooming. Something in my shoulders relaxed a bit as I shut the side door and headed over to the driver's side.

So long now I've been out
In the rain and snow
But winter's come and gone
And a little bird told me so

Random Thoughts on No Kidding: Totally stolen from folks I have no right to steal from

I have 3 children. I also have a husband and 3 cats and a big house and a Mazda 5 and an organic garden and an archery certification from girl scouts, but for the most part, most people define me by that first sentence.

I live on a block with many families of children. Quick numbers by households with current children living at home: 3, 3, 2, 1, 1, 3, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 2, 3, 4. And so we're known for this--lots of kids in stable homes (meaning, we've all lived here a while, like, most of our children were born here). We--those with kids and those without--also play some mah jongg and poker and have barbecues and block parties and fight crime, but for the most part, people know we're the block right by the park "with all the kids."

And, like being white and being Catholic in a Catholic city, I think nothing of this. We are the standard issue around here.

----

My brother has one child, and he and his wife recently had a stillborn son (miscarriage? stillborn? he was right on the cut-off). They plan to try again soon. I have three kids. My two sisters do not have children. I think Colleen may, some day, maybe. I don't think Bevin will. This became pretty clear as Bevin went to college and then since then. My mother lamented one of her break-ups by saying, "but think what beautiful children you would have had," and Bevin replied that neither of them were interested, really. Mali, who writes a blog about being childless in New Zealand (although I don't think the NZ part is really key--she just happens to live there), wrote a recent entry about how childless people are seen as selfish, but I never though of Bevin this way. Now, I think Colleen IS selfish (as she herself would admit) but not because of her child status. She just is.

---

Speaking of selfish, I do know a childless couple who announced very early in their marriage that they weren't having children because they didn't want to share. That was their public reason. Mike and I laughed a lot, privately, because "sharing" was never a dealbreaker for us (we're both from large families). Other reasons, maybe. But then I considered later that maybe this was their slap-in-the-face public reason to keep people off their backs.

It of course didn't work. People callously tried to convince them they should have children. People with lots of children, of course. "You just don't know how they'll change your life." And I told them that too many people had children for the wrong reasons and knowing your own mind was important. It was a teaching moment for me. It keeps me off my sisters' backs.

---

I have another friend who is childless, also by choice, and said once at a dinner party that kids were the "flat tires on the road of life." She managed to alienate pretty much the whole room: folks with children, folks who couldn't have children, hell, even folks who had once BEEN children.

---

Sitting with friends, talk eventually turns to people you know in common. Always. Even if you don't mean to gossip, in a negative way, you wind up talking about folks you know. And questions arise: "Are they going to have children? Do you know? Has she said anything? Are they trying?"

---

Mike is the oldest of 4. I am the oldest of 4. That's a big number these days, as Indigo pointed out. People just don't have 4 children anymore, right? Not if they're sane. But I know several families larger than that. Then people assume they're strict fundamentalists or conservative Catholics. But none of them fits that description either, and many of the evangelical and strict Catholic families I know have 2 children.

---

My cousin is pregnant with twins. My first question on the phone to my mother was whether it was IVF. Turns out it was, but why do I care?

---

Back to selfish. I can't remember if it was Bevin who said it or someone else, but I'm going to attribute it to her. She said that she just didn't think she could take the heartache of children. And I understood. I had no idea, going in. None.

---

I would have had more children. Seriously. If my pregnancies weren't ridiculous and my births even more so, I could have had 5. That said, I have certainly reached my level of incompetence with 3. So maybe it's for the best. Still, I am keeping a door open in my heart. Too many older children waiting in state foster care, "aging out" to a lonely young adulthood. But as Tiffany at school said, "there's lots of babies in the world and I don't have to have any more of them" (she adopted a waiting older child herself after having 2).

---

Indigo mentioned that this was the most earth-friendly decision she made, to not have children. And it probably was. But what was mine? That's what I asked myself. I think it was recycling a whole house and not buying new.

---

My grandmother has a keychain made of pony beads on her car keys. "Haven't seen the grandchild in 20 years but still have the keychain she made." She said it flippantly but it was meant more emotionally charged. It opened a tunnel into the future, a dim view of lost connections and people who are part of you, in a way, that are no longer people you know. Nobody plans to have a family fall apart. Megan and Erin. Last time I saw them, I was 8.

---

My grandmother's older brother Harold drowned in a creek at the bottom of the hill out in Maries County. He's listed in the 1920 census and then he's not in the 1930. They buried him on the property, no headstone. They moved away and never came back. Maybe Bevin is right.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 reasons to be glad it's spring

Well, that shouldn't be hard this year.

1. Maeve's eczema will start to decrease. I can maybe put my 5 gallon drum of aquaphor away.

2. Daffodils.

3. Hoping that my garden takes. Looking at the dirt each day. Hoping.

4. Bikes are getting tuned up and ready to go. We are not hardy enough to ride in the winter. Not with these kids at least.

5. Capris.

6. Birkenstocks. I wear very cute ones, not the standard hippie issue.

7. It's time to get my hair highlighted!

8. Lower energy bills (for a while at least)

9. Many small projects are coming to fruition as winter wanes but before I get distracted by warmer weather.

10. Spring break: it's good practice this year for the long summer break. And it told me this: keep them busy.

Phone Call

I have caller i.d. now. Didn't used to--it came with U-verse when we succumbed, I mean when we signed up and consolidated all our bills into one larger bill. Or whatever. Now we have this feature and it's actually quite useful. I don't pick up at all anymore when the people from the Red Cross call (they call weekly, even though I have let them know that I cannot give blood until my doctor clears me on my iron, and that I WILL LET THEM KNOW).

So yesterday I'm making pie crust for dinner and the phone rings. I'd just hung up with a girl scout parent, well, with his voicemail, which was full, and therefore the reassuring voice (probably from AT&T) suggested I try again later. I thought maybe, just maybe, he was calling me back. I didn't recognize the number that popped up, or the name, which was Ahmed something. But I was hopeful about girl scouts and picked up anyway.

"Miss Bridgett?" came the voice. Woman's voice, St. Louis African-American cadence.

"This is she," I respond.

"Miss Bridgett, this is Sharonda. My mom used to watch your little girl when you went to the YMCA?"

"Wow, yeah, Miss Kathy, I remember her, sure."

"Right, and she said that she thought maybe you had been a teacher?"

And I put down the salt and butter and go into the dining room, which is a shambles right now as we get ready to paint it on Thursday. For once in my mothering life, no children appear at my side to listen to the phone call and ask demanding questions that must be answered now.

Sharonda explains the situation. Her son, the same age as Sophia, has been diagnosed with ADHD and while this isn't causing a problem behaviorally, his schoolwork is suffering. The school, surprise surprise, isn't following the IEP, a document that she feels she's been rooked into in the first place. And she was looking for resources. Help.

The fact that she had to dig back 7 years in the past to a woman she's never met on recommendation from her mother who liked her little girl and once had a conversation about education implies to me a desperation bordering on panic.

We talked a little about theory, about the public schools, about charter schools, about advocacy. I got off the phone with her name and phone number and a promise that I'd call her the next day (today) in the evening once I had made some contacts and hunted around. Which I'm trying to do now--I don't have many contacts left these days either, frankly, but I'm trying. I want to help her and I think I probably can.

It's strange, living in one place so long that people can find you and ask you questions years later based on conversations you don't even remember having. And which are suddenly relevant again.

It makes me hopeful that other people may one day call.

Radiation Chart

I think info-graphics of all kinds are helpful when I try to understand things that are too big, too small, or too convoluted to grasp just by listening to the radio. XKCD, a comic I read regularly, has a radiation chart that is not a comic but is compiled in a somewhat similar way to how he normally puts information on paper. The conversion chart on the side is good to note, although reading it from top to bottom makes plenty sense. Good.

Spring Break Beat Me Up

And stole my lunch money. And ate my homework.

I was very, very happy to drive to school this morning.

It wasn't a bad week. The girls had a nice time. We stayed here in town, since we'd just been to Disney World and because spring break fell on St. Patrick's Day, so we were busy here and there.

Next year, though? St. Pat's is on a Saturday. I'm hoping our school takes the week after (I should lobby for that), so that I don't feel the same level of obligation to Irish Dance during the break. And then...I think we're going to go away. Perhaps camping somewhere. Leo will be 3. We could go down to Mammoth Cave or something like that. Not too far away.

Because it sort of wore me out to be here with nothing on the schedule except some dance shows and a fish fry and regular piano lessons. The girls played "Little Big Planet" with friends and I cleaned the basement. They enjoyed the good weather and, well, I did too, but I also kept the house up well enough to not go crazy. Mike mudded and sanded the dining room walls. I got rid of the vestment cabinet (sorry Miguel, it was time). I planted my garden and cleaned up a bit in the yard. Washed all the chair cushions and Mike put together a bin to store them in.

I watched Sherlock. Twice. So in love with that. Only three episodes? What is wrong with them? Wikipedia says it'll be back in late 2011. They brought back Law & Order UK so I'm hopeful (I know, different people involved but it's all British TV, right?).

Community came back on hulu. 30 Rock, too.

I put summer camps together. Mailing that today. Well, almost today. Mike is checking something on his schedule. He gets to go to Edmonton this summer and all I get is...just kidding. I wish I were going somewhere, but I'm not. Not my time. It's my summertime to ride bikes and run around at the Maplewood pool chasing that dang baby before he falls in the water and then get everyone corralled in the car and give them each a shake vanilla chocolate those are the choices and then come home and listen to video game music while I type on my blog and sift the cat litter and change the sheets and then stoop sit and Carter brings out a bottle of wine and we all drink out of coffee mugs.

Texan Mama said that spring break was the rehearsal for summer break, and if so, I really need to get my act together. Or just let it go and live in the moment.

Kitty, Kitty

We call him Woolly Bear. He lives under our porch and several other places as well. He eats from our front porch and sometimes from other folks' back porches. He is a plump stray, which always makes me smile.

He is 100% feral. His ear is clipped, which means, maybe, that he's been neutered. I call him "he" because he hasn't had babies. I don't know for sure--he could be a spayed female. The clipped ear, according to my neighbor who works with cats, is the sign essentially saying "I'm not contributing to the pet overpopulation, you don't need to worry about that, at least" and while he may still carry horrible diseases, at least he/she isn't producing litter after litter of cats.

Of course, my neighbor points out, he might just have a damaged ear. He only has half a tail, after all.

He's a long-haired black cat, but he's not just domestic long-haired because his fur is always in really good condition even though he sleeps "rough." I think he has similar genetics to my Bleys ("Blaze") who definitely has some Norwegian Forest Cat in him. Never grooms. Never. Well--he'll obsessively wash one paw one afternoon in the sun. Sometimes Hickory will give it a try. But his fur is never matted or dreadlocked or anything.

And this one has a similar face to Bleys', too, more like a Maine Coon or Norwegian than the snubby nosed long haird primadonna kitties.

Did I mention 100% feral? Oh yes. He hates people. Hisses at us when we come within 6 feet. Yet he will sit on the porch and await his food delivery, staring at our frantic indoor cats yowling at me to let them at the interloper at the door. He doesn't seem bothered by them. He has a friend, too, a big cat in a mackeral tabby pattern like our Blackjack, that we've named Texas Holdem (bigger than Blackjack, you see) but usually just call Tex. They don't fight, which leads my neighbor to think that perhaps they have other interests under my porch....still, no babies.


I have touched Woolly Bear once, at the end of last summer when I'd trained him to come closer and closer to be fed. And he totally freaked out, spat, ran, growled, the works. It will have to be on his terms.

I sat on the porch tonight and chatted on the phone and then with neighbors briefly. Suddenly I realized he was sitting on the porch with me, only a few feet away, but slightly shielded by a bag of potting soil, like a bunker or tiny fort. We regarded each other.

And then he hissed and walked down the steps. I went in, got the food, and poured him a half cup or so next to the potting soil bag. He waited for the door to shut behind me and then trotted back up for dinner.

St. Patrick's Day Parade

The Saturday one. Our school doesn't do the day of, for several reasons, mostly involving 4 years ago and the need for two floats due to size restrictions and our director just decided, nope, not anymore.

I walked in the parade this year, and so did Sophia--I think for the first time. I think she's always gotten to ride, but now she is 9 and lo, it's time to walk 18 blocks or whatever down Market Street and then book it back to McMurphy's to dance some more. She had a bad sore throat to boot, and it just didn't go well for her. But she was a trooper and just kept quiet (she had no voice). She got to carry a streamer this year, too, and that was fun.



And two more, that Pete took of Maeve (that's Uncle Pete holding Leo above there, one of Mike's brothers).
And lastly, a few blurry photos of dancing at McMurphy's. Because that's what dancing at McMurphy's is: a blur.





Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Daoibh!

Media Fast

Time for another media fast.

When the tsunami hit in the Indian Ocean, there weren't, as far as I know, cameras to catch every moment of destruction. Still photos, stories from survivors, but no live raw footage as the wave came ashore.

I have been sucked into Russia Today's coverage (why Russia Today? And why is it in English?). The Guardian's clips. Viral videos uploaded by amateurs.

And now I must stop.

I stopped watching news and listening to NPR/BBC round the clock in 2001 after 9/11. It took me until mid-October, but we dumped cable and I worked hard to not think about it. Really. And I know I've done it since--maybe as hurricane season worsened a few years back with Katrina, and then later with Ike. Just couldn't keep reading and watching and looking. Had to stop.

I will miss Diane Rehm and other NPR folk as I put in the Lyle Lovett CD in my car and press "repeat". It will be weird to have silence again in the house during naptime.

I care about what's happening, don't get me wrong. Please don't mistake this for a callous opinion of Japan or of humanity. It is just nearly impossible for me to simply catch a headline and leave it at that. I have to keep looking. I have to. And it eats too much time and does nothing for nobody.

Plus, I have mittens to work on. Cute bulky purple ones. After that, a bright yellow pair.

It will be helpful when the weather finally turns the corner. More to do outside, fewer excuses to sit here. Until then, I will start packing our emergency bug-out bags, make sure I've got that stockpile of nonperishable food put aside, check the batteries in the smoke alarm, and try not, must not, can not think about New Madrid.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 favorite kinds of pie

Ok. Wow. I like pie. I'm the pie divider at church when we cook for the homebound at holidays. I count pies and divide by slices of different sizes until we have enough, but not too much left over. But we always save one back, usually made by Mickey (not his real name), who makes a dozen pies each time and they are quite, quite good. Sigh.

I'm just going to list these in a ten favorites kind of way. Not that number 1 or number 10 is my absolute favorite. All 10 of these are in pie heaven.

1. Lemon meringue. At one of my wedding showers, every participant was to give me a single piece of advice about marriage. I remember 4 of them. One was from an aunt who said, "put divorce out of the equation" which got a few of the divorced folks in the circle up in arms. She, by the way, is now divorced. My mother-in-law said that any job I wanted done well, I needed to do myself. Conversely, my mother said to make sure never to learn any job that I didn't want to do for the rest of my life (like change the oil on the car). But the best piece of advice came from my great-aunt Jackie: learn how to make a good lemon meringue pie. Mike, as it turns out, isn't that big of a fan. But I understood the broader advice hidden there.

2. Pumpkin. I have a half-baked one in my freezer just waiting for its turn in the oven. Maybe this week. Hmm. I had so much pumpkin and related squash that I made several pumpkin pies for the freezer. I still have some canned pumpkin from the CSA...

3. Apple. Any apple: crumb top or open or lattice strips or full shell. I like mine with an extra dose of nutmeg. And only homemade on this one. I can't take it from a can.

4. Strawberry. Fresh with the jello concoction from Mike's side of the family, or the cooked version I have made. Often paired with rhubarb when cooked in the oven to add the tartness needed to balance the bland sweetness of strawberries. I made one and took it to my aunt Sarah's house for dinner with Mike early in our marriage, and she was so impressed she took a picture. And trust me, back then? My crust did not deserve to be documented.

5. Lemonade Pie. This is one of those "out of a can" kind of recipes that cannot be beat. Mostly condensed milk and frozen lemonade. Oskamina.

6. Any of the obnoxious over the top chocolate caramel hoo-ha pies, you know, like Snickers or turtle. Has to be hot and paired with vanilla ice cream.

7. Chess. Lemon chess especially. More with the oskamina. I guess I like lemon. But chess pie is a unique creature. No idea why it's called that. I guess I'll be learning this afternoon. My mom says her mom's Ozark family made something similar called press pie. Hmm.

8. Coconut Cream pie. Don't get this very often, but when I do, I'm happy I did.

9. Chocolate Silk. I've had this before, house made at a restaurant, that was very very heavy on the coffee, and I will spend the rest of my life wishing other chocolate silk pies were like it. (Kind of like a less strident version of my barbecue problem). Ah well.

10. Ack, how can I already be at 10. I like all sorts of basic fruit pies (all but peach), but I have to put in the humble pudding pie with cool whip on top here. Have to. Total cheater pie, made from pudding out of a box poured into a graham cracker crumb crust, topped with faux whipped cream (Mike refers to cool whip as "that petroleum product" no matter how many times I have to explain to him that there is no actual petroleum in it). I make this pie to use up milk that I don't think will last much longer, frankly. It's a frugal thing. Sort of.

Llama Llama Girl Scout Drama

More drama. Always more drama, right?

We had a meeting Sunday. It was the day cookie money was due. All but one girl of the 19 who sold cookies turned in money, which was pretty good. The one who didn't, though, is out of town and nobody answers the phone and I don't know the family well enough to know how to proceed. Here's hoping they call back. But that's not really the drama now--Zelda (cookie manager) and I worked it out what we'll do (report them if they don't call and let the chips, or cookies, fall where they may).

The drama is about trips. We have a really cool trip planned for later this month. Really cool. We went last year and it rocked. I know it will again this year. The troop pays for half and we eat on the cheap and have a good time. Last year it was one of those experiences that I signed up for Girl Scouting in order to do. I expect the same will be true this month.

Since our camping trip in January, we have had 2 regular meetings and a gathering (a talent show!). Of the 20 total girls in the troop, 13 girls have attended at least one. Guess who hasn't attended. The ringleader, her two friends and the hanger-on from the camping trip disaster. Yes, there are three other girls who have missed all three meetings, but girl A's mom has been in contact with me, girl B talked to me personally, and girl C has been in contact with my co-leader. Not perfect, but better than the other 4 at least. The hanger-on doesn't bother me a bit, and in fact her mother has been a longtime booster for our troop and I think there may be some family drama going on there right now (she didn't sell cookies either) so I'm letting them have a little slack on the rope--plus, hanger-on apologized for her behavior once I threw down the gauntlet and rejoined the group pretty well.

So here's the deal. Ringleader is Cookie Mom's (who is actually Cookie Grandma, yes, I've been lying the whole time). The other two are new to the troop and are sisters. All of them sold cookies and got their forms in semi on-time, picked up their cookies, and turned in their money. Zelda lives on my street. Nobody gave me a heads up about missing a meeting. My phone number is plastered on everything I send out. Email too.

Today Cookie Grandma called Zelda to see about a few more boxes, which would be great actually because our troop has extras and we'll have to pay for them. She came by and picked them up and asked Zelda for my phone number. "I want to call Bridgett because I hear there's a trip coming up and [Ringleader] is so excited."

Zelda called and gave me a heads-up. I had a lot to say right then to her about how frustrating this all is. And then I prepared. Taking some advice from Jan in Portland, I wrote down all my points in an outline with phrases I wanted to be sure to use.

Because I am not letting this girl go on the trip with us. And I know I'm going to get acid splashed on me, through the phone, when I tell Cookie Grandma this. I will let her go on our next camping trip, in May, if and only if she participates in our meetings and our charity drive ("April Showers") coming up next month. And she'll have to sign a behavior contract. And so will Mom.

I hate that I am having to do this (the girls at the last meeting came up the behavior contract points, which was amusing itself to watch which girls wanted to run our troop like a police state and which girls thought that was hilarious). All the girls will sign it, of course, but her mother will too. Not her grandmother. Her mother. Because her mother will be the one who has to come pick her up from camp when she breaks it.

So I got all these ducks in a row and then decided to make my life even simpler. I would let Cookie Grandma know that due to her lack of attendance at meetings and her behavior at the camping trip, she would not be able to come to the March trip, BUT THAT I WOULD NEED TO TALK TO ONE OF HER PARENTS ABOUT THE DETAILS. The She Said/She Said relationship between Cookie Grandma and her (ex?) daughter-in-law is a doozy, and even though girl scout leader is the least of the things that get caught in the middle, I have definitely gotten caught. And I'm not going to talk to Grandma and have the details get lost in translation, or never translated at all, to Mom and then somebody angry is on my phone saying things I don't need to listen to. Drama.

Of course she hasn't called.

My worry is that she'll go to my co-leader instead, who is wonderful and lovely and so good with the girls socially and really has been such a good addition to my life and my troop but she's the queen of second chances and I need to be strong here. So I sent her an email.

As for the two sisters, I'm not sure what to do. I know my co-leader is in touch with them pretty often, and their mom did have to shell out for a lot of cookies they couldn't find the buyers for in time (but I assume they will find the buyers). Both of these women (Cookie Grandma and this mom) are not the most, well, stable personalities, and I'm always a little afraid to, as my friend Ann says, "poke the crazy" and inflict that on myself.

I looked around the room at the 13 girls who were there, and thought about 4 who weren't (many were on spring break trips already) and realized that those 17 would make a lovely troop. Still with some personalities, still with conflict and compromise and different backgrounds, interests, and maturity levels, but with an overall desire to be there and be a part of a group. I have a strong feeling Cookie Grandma is forcing her girl to be a girl scout, and the two sisters joined because my co-leader's daughter is a member. My co-leader warned me about them--in veiled language, but looking back, she did. And I don't think they'll be back next year. Ringleader/Cookie Grandma will be harder to shed, but next year from the beginning there will be attendance and participation requirements in order to go on trips with us. I'm not a tour director.

Remind me that this will be over soon and I'll feel better.

It snowed today

It snowed here today.

That is all.

Mathematically Annoying Advertising from xkcd

If you aren't reading xkcd, you should be.

Put down that sweater

A few years back Ann suggested, via her blog, a Lenten project of "Forty Days for Others". It was a knitting project. The idea was that you put down your regular knitting for yourself and your friends and babies in your life and all that, and instead knit for charity for Lent.

That year I made 8 or 9 scarves, thick 5-strand knitting in size 19 needles. I also, later, made one for Sophia and one for Maeve, which they still use. I used wool, because we were advised that the homeless do not have much opportunity to save a scarf from year to year, they are not likely to launder it, and wool is better if you're really needing something. It retains heat even when wet, felts a bit as time goes on to become even more sturdy, and has some, although small, anti-odor and anti-microbial properties (which is why felted wool works for diaper covers).

I gave the scarves to my neighbor across the street, whose wife is a pastor at a church that runs a day center for the homeless. And they gave out the scarves. I hope they were appreciated, I hope they did their job.

This year, on advice from Lisa (Clearview), I am making mittens and hats for school. There's a rule at school that one must have mittens to go out and play at some temperature (or maybe if there is precipitation on the ground? I can't recall). At least the rule was in existence, but either way, I always passed on my mismatched mittens and gloves to them, just in case someone forgets a pair at home (my children have, and trust me, they have plenty of mittens). But it struck me that our school is not all middle class and that a pair of hand-knit striped mittens on a string, made from a wool that will felt a bit as they wear them, might be just what someone needs.

So I'm going to make wool mittens on strings, and probably a few hats (I'll have to find some far less scratchy stuff in my stash). Kid mittens and hats go fast. My goal is 6--one a week. I better put down the stranded knitting sweater I've been making such good progress on (sigh) and get going.

Love it when we make national news

It's not my direct neighborhood but it's not far away. Woke up this morning to the loud sirens of police cars speeding down Grand. That only ever means one thing here. If they're in pursuit, they usually don't have their sirens on. And ambulances sound different, as do fire engines. Police moving fast with sirens on mean police escort for the ambulance carrying the injured officer.

Heard one set fly by.

And a second.

And a third.

St. Louis is a tough little town. We don't have a lot going for us that hits national news. Unless it's bad news. Always with the bad news. Too bad, because I kind of like it here. A lot.

Two US Marshals and a city police officer were shot today at a stand off further south from where I live. The suspect, whatever they wanted him on, is now also dead.

But isn't that a great random photo? Those are stoops like mine. Go St. Louis.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 favorite smells. What?

Ten favorite smells? Hmm. Ok. Thing is, smell is, as we all know, a powerful mental trigger. The olfactory nerve is only two synapses away from the amygdala, which is involved in experiencing emotion and also in emotional memory. Only three synapses from the hippocampus to the olfactory nerve, as well, and don't get me started on the importance of the hippocampus to how we establish new memories (it's important, I'll leave it at that). So it makes sense that smells retrieve emotionally charged memories in a way that photographs just cannot. That voices or even the bark of a dog can't. We remember by smell.

And, as you can probably guess, all these things happen in the temporal lobe.

So I think about smells and I think about things I've said like "that tastes like how Galveston smells" (not a compliment) or "this soap smells like my whole junior year of high school" (ditto). Leather smells like longing. Locker rooms smell like ordered neat pencil marks on a page. Beatrix Potter books smell like my first name. Certain antibiotics smell like panic. So do B vitamins, by the way. Winter air with snow falling smells like french braids and velveteen dresses. Blue ones. Those sorts of idiotic connections. Tunnels into my brain.

So some favorite smells?

1. The air when winter has given way to spring. It might snow again but it's spring. "It just smells different," I tell Sophia. "Can't you feel the difference?" She stares at me blankly. "It's just air, Mom."

2. Exhausted toddlers. A bit of sweat, a bit of milk, a bit of exhaustion. A sense of giving up but not really. More giving way.

3. Salty air. Again, a damp smell, but not like a Missouri spring. It is salty, it is the wind turning and blowing up from the gulf or across the mountains into the valley. It is a change, again.

4. Printmaking ink. Water or oil based. It is the moment when I let it go and stopped trying to control the outcomes of art projects. It is Rina standing up and pointing to my 6 poster sized prints on her her wall and saying "This. This is a final project."

5. Old South St. Louis buildings. I don't mean mold, I don't mean cigarette smoke or mustiness or anything dirty or foul. It's something--the wood floors, or maybe just air that stays in a stairwell too long, an old stairwell. My house doesn't have this smell. But my first memories happen in a building on South Grand, a 4 family flat we lived in, that did have that smell. And I still catch it here and there. But only in 100 year old buildings and only in St. Louis. I can't even name it but it brings back this picture of a tiny ceramic green iron-shaped thing, maybe a toothpick holder, in my hand. My very small soft hand. The image and the smell are intertwined and will probably be one of the last ones I lose.

6. Asiatic lilies. Stargazers. I have them in the front. They show up in bouquets. It's a heavy summer flower smell. It is sleepy hot.

7. Sun-dried sheets. They are everything you figure. Clean sheets mean a clean house. A made bed means you care about your environment and you care about yourself, too. And sheets dried in the sun are like the luxury layer on top of that. You care, and you are carefree.

8. Fresh mown grass. Mown. Is that not a word anymore? Hmm. I have a red squiggle for misspellings under it. Mown. Now it totally looks wrong. Grass, of course. More tidiness. I hate mowing the grass (I have a contact allergic reaction to grass actually and have to mow in jeans and a sweatshirt). But afterward sitting on the back deck smelling the grass, I forgive it.

9. Baking. Any baking. Bread, cookies, pies, cakes, doesn't matter. Baking, for the most part, means someone else is cooking. I rarely bake. And so baking means food is arriving by other means than my hands. Which is always a cozy thought. So I curl up on the sofa in the recliner in the chair with a quilt an afghan a baby and I watch TV I read a book I nap I nurse and let someone else fill the house with lovely smells and later bring me a piece. Of whatever.

10. Sharpened pencils. I'm a biter. A good softwood pencil, freshly sharpened, smells like every successful school day in my past. And I want to crunch down on it with my teeth. Not my front teeth, but my canines. Make a sharp little indentation. Smell the shaved wood again, lick the tip, and start to write. Yes, I'm a mess about pencils. Picky as all get out. They have to smell like pencils and bite like pencils and taste like pencils and write with a clear dark gray line. And I love them.

Now I have to go find out why it isn't mown anymore (or why blogger isn't recognizing it) and sharpen a pencil. Stat.

Pondering

It was an interesting weekend. I'm still pondering it. Not the mah jongg part--it was a good distribution of winners, we played on several different cards from past years, and had fun. Zelda made breakfast each day and we played a lot of games. A lot. But always when a group of women get together and spend a weekend in their pajamas (I actually got dressed Saturday but that's because I equate a day in pajamas with a day with the flu), well, it gets interesting.

Interesting because as the day wears on, inhibitions drop and folks say what they mean. I've seen it again and again with all sorts of groups I've been a part of. Add in a methodical game you have to at least half concentrate on, and your brain kind of takes a lunch break. But your mouth keeps working. No, nobody cried, nobody got mean or weird, but it was interesting.

I guess what is most fascinating is who gets to say what to whom. I felt very much the "whom" this weekend and this is often true.

And then Gretchen and I stayed up until 4 in the morning and really talked for the first time in at least a year. So that was good.

But I'm still pondering.

Right Now (an occasionally recurring themed post)

Right now Leo is asleep on the downstairs couch, having drifted away while we drove home from Target.

Right now a couple of neighborhood kids are pushing trucks up and down the sidewalk.

Right now I'm waiting for the dryer to finish its cycle so I can take the jeans out I want to wear tomorrow because

Right now I am packing to go on a girls' weekend down at Lake of the Ozarks. Mike and the kids are going to stay home. Just me. Going away. Playing mah jongg.

Right now the clouds can't decide if they're going to rain or not.

Right now I'm hoping Sophia did ok on her vocabulary test because we didn't have much of a chance to study it this week. And I'm kicking myself over it but

Right now I can't do anything about that.

Right now the bed is made, the laundry is almost done, the house is messy but in a "we have kids" way, not in some horrifying dirty way.

Right now the upstairs cat litter, however, is calling my name. Before I go...

Right now I'm going to print out my long outline of Christian denominations and go downstairs with it and get some progress done on a long-ago-started project. It's just me. Don't worry about it, but

Right now I have to spend my time a bit more wisely.

The Cabinet

In 1999, my father built me a china cabinet. It is a huge cabinet, easily 7 feet tall, maybe taller. It fits nicely in my dining room between the fireplace and the back window. It is made of poplar and has three doors--one is wood and the other two are meant to have glass set in the front.

He built it, but didn't finish it. Left that for me to do, which, for those of you who know me, is never a good idea. I. Never. Finished. It.

It stood in my dining room staring at me. Look at this cabinet, how nice it would be if it were finished and you could use it.

I hated having people over, people who didn't know me, because of it. Ugh. It was a symptom of something larger, of this house, of the unfinished life I was leading.

Yesterday I went to HomeEco, which is a green products store. I was looking for zero VOC paint because of Maeve's sensitivities. While the woman is chatting about their options, I see the wood finish. It's a stain and finish. Not a varnish, but a finish, one that has to be waxed to be truly done but I still zeroed in on it. I asked her about it. She showed me their front door, which had been finished with it. Perfect.

I bought two gallons of white paint for the dining room, for the primer. If I like it, I'll go ahead and order the medium gray I'm looking to do in there. But I also brought home a little jar of walnut stain and finish. Got home, put Leo down for a nap, and lightly sanded and dusted the cabinet.

And finished it.

I'm kind of in love with it.

Mary came over to pick up her girl scout cookies and I pointed it out to her. She had ordered, 10 years ago, the beveled diamonds we would need to make the glass door insets. We both obviously got busy on other projects. But I showed her. It was done. Just needed the glass. She still had the bevels at home. We decided on clear glass around them. Didn't set a date yet but it'll be soon.

And then it'll be done. One more unfinished project to check off my list. And not an annoying one like cleaning the basement or putting baseboards in the bathroom. This one makes me happy.

Ten on Tuesday: 10 Things to Love About March

1. Daffodils and crocus
2. St. Patrick's Day and all the Irish Dance that comes with it in my household.
3. Finally opening the windows for a breath of fresh damp air.
4. Getting the bikes out
5. The surprise snow on the daffodils snow
6. Lent. No, really. It helps me focus.
7. Spring break for the kids means a few days of sleeping in for me.
8. I can see the end of the school year from here
9. Planting in the garden begins in earnest. Plenty to do.
10. Towards the end, packing up the winter coats and boots for real. Moving the basket of scarves and mittens to the attic.

I like all months. Autumn ones are usually my favorite, but late March and all of April are very very nice indeed.

King's Speech to Silverado

The night before the Oscars, I went to see this The King's Speech. It was the only movie, besides Toy Story III, that I saw that was up for an Oscar. Pretty sure anyway. Kids kind of cramp your style but I have netflix so I eventually see what I want.

Not that point. The point is that somewhere in the middle of this movie, about the time when I stopped saying "Colin Firth" and started saying "Bertie" (completely lost him in the character, which of course is the point of acting, but trust me, losing Colin Firth is hard for me to do), I also stopped saying "stutter" and started saying "dyslexia".

I know dyslexia and stuttering have nothing to do with each other. Completely different parts of the brain, different causes, different approaches. That wasn't what I was seeing. What I was seeing was an adult with a severe social disability (he wasn't blind, he wasn't paralyzed, he hadn't been burned by acid, but he couldn't hold a conversation) who wasn't getting any better.

Until everyone around him stopped yelling at him to DO BETTER. Just spit it out. Just say it. I stopped hearing that and started thinking about spelling and reading and things that have been said to Sophia. I know many of you know Sophia. And I know she is charming and quirky and lovely. But the girl couldn't read until last spring. This isn't just a blip, it isn't a lack of good phonics teaching or laziness or montessori hippies turning her into an illiterate. Trust me. And those of you who don't know Sophia, again, she's really smart. She has a huge verbal vocabulary. She is a big-picture do-it-in-her-head math student. I'm not grasping at straws here. Dyslexia fools you, and it fooled me for a long time. There is nothing about talking to her that indicates that she would ever in a million years in your wildest dreams have a problem learning to read.

And as opposed to someone who might have a language processing problem or gaps in her education, dyslexia is not going to go away or lessen its grip on Sophia. I don't say this in a hopeless way, because unlike many other learning disabilities, dyslexia often comes with positives. It is only because our world is so so verbal that people with dyslexia have problems. They are spatial thinkers, they are creative, adapt easily to change, follow patterns, and, often, due to schooling, are hard workers.

In the movie, after he is crowned king of England and then war is declared, Bertie (King George VI) is handed a speech that he will be reading on the radio. The first thing he does is tell one of his assistants to call Logue, the character played by Geoffrey Rush, the self-taught speech therapist. Logue arrives and they go through this speech. They go through all the tricks and all the accommodations. They go, together, into the room where he will read the speech. Logue has draped the room in fabric to lower the ceiling and block out distractions. He opens a window. He has the folks from the BBC keep the "on air" light turned off so it won't stare at them the whole time. And as Bertie glances down at the speech, it is covered in slashes and marks to help him remember the little cues and tricks he needs to read this speech.

And he reads it. He slogs through it slowly and carefully and painfully and he does it.

As opposed to a certain genre of miracle worker teacher movies, Logue doesn't walk off into the sunset at this point. The afterward mentions that Logue was present at every wartime speech. Every one. I don't know how true to life the movie is (I've only paid half attention to NPR the past few months), but I imagine that every single speech involved practice and annotations and tricks and accommodations. The speech impediment isn't gone. He isn't cured. It is still there.

But he does what he has to do. With accommodations.

I want Sophia's teacher to see this movie with that thought in mind. Sophia reads on grade level, but she does best if she's listening to the story as she reads. Sophia can copy from a handwritten page onto a word processor, but it helps if she has a post-it note to keep her place, and scratches off the lines as she goes (thus destroying the first copy). Sophia will never be a good speller, but she can still learn what words mean. She can still use words. Do I want her to rely forever on a Franklin speller or other electronic device? No, of course not. Will she probably need to anyway? Yup.

I can think of a word, say, hippopotamus, and I know in my head how to spell it. I know that if I write it hippopotamos that it will look instantly wrong and I will change that o to a u. Sophia doesn't have this innate ability, but she can be taught the rules required to spell a word like hippopotamus--except that final schwa, which tends to be a random choice (or, more often, based on the spelling rules from its language of origin). She can learn why we double the /p/ sound the first time but not the second. Why we don't double the /s/ at the end even though we do on single syllable words that are not plurals that end in /s/ (like floss or kiss). But I have a hunch that these will never reach the point of "unknowingly knowing" like spelling is for most folks. She will always carry them around in the forefront, unlike, say, how she can hear three bars of music and know if she dances a jig, a single jig, a slip jig, a treble jig, a reel, or a hornpipe to that tune. Some things become innate. Others probably won't.

But that doesn't mean she's going to fail at life. It just means she needs to learn how to change her world to make it fit her. That, of course, reminds me of another movie, Silverado, which I just cannot stop loving. Stella, played by Linda Hunt, walks behind the bar, gradually becoming tall enough to serve drinks to customers. Paden (Kevin Klein) is amused, and she just shrugs: The world is what you make of it, friend. If it doesn't fit, you make alterations.