Buzz, buzz, buzz

Once upon a time, again

my hair began to shed
just like cats in summertime
the mess I made, oh dread!
I flew that week from East to West
to Mama's house I went
No brush or comb I used at all
and silk scarves was I lent

When I got home I couldn't wait
to have the mess removed.
My daughter turned the clippers on;
my sanity improved.

Owen helped; his little face
it bore such concentration.
When he stopped Chantel resumed.
His look of consternation
disappeared, he laughed and shrieked,

"You look like Uncle Clayton!"

I thought I did, and maybe do
look like my youngest child,

But John and I look so alike,
as he would say, "That's wild!"
(I love ya, Bo!)
And family, thanks for the buzz party!

I Stand Corrected

My friend, Clytie, sent me a note with more accurate information about the history of the Pottawattamie plums than what I wrote. I made the corrections and reposted. I spent another 20 minutes trying to figure out why the link to that post doesn't work. So you'll have to scroll down to find it if you want to read the truth!! Thanks, Clytie.

Christmas Time

This year I vowed that I would involve myself in as many holiday events as possible. Last year I was moving and missed almost everything. This year was a different story. I attended numerous musical events at the D.C. Visitors Center, including several choir concerts Chantel was involved in. I took my friend Kathy to see the lights. I went with the Calders to see the lights again and enjoy a barbershop quartet, and I attended two different ward Christmas parties. In addition, I made goodies for my neighbors, most of whom I barely know, but had fun leaving goodies at their doors. Christmas eve was spent at the Calders. I woke up to hear Owen, "Grammy! Wake up! It's time for stockings!" I love stocking time and always have. Once again, Chantel filled mine without my knowing it. She is an angel daughter. After breakfast we opened gifts. Later in the day, we picked up my friend Kathy and she, along with us and another family, enjoyed a ham feast complete with tablecloths and candlelight. A wonderful, lovely, Christmas day.

Pottawattamie Jelly

My friends, Clytie and Spence, have a long-standing tradition: During the summer when wild pottawattamie plums are ripe, they pick enough to make a hundred or more 1/2 pints of beautiful, clear, red jelly. During their annual performance of the Nutcracker in December, the jellies are sold as a fund-raiser to help replace the cost of costumes. Well, Madelyn and I were lucky enough to be recipients of this incredible treat. We ate it drizzled over home-made bread pudding and Clytie sent us on our way with our own jars and one for Mom.

Spence told us the Pottawattamie Indians showed the early saints where the shrubs grew wild in Iowa when the saints stopped in Winter Quarters on their trek west. In the spring they took dried root stock with them to the Salt Lake Valley and planted them along the irrigation ditch banks. Over the years as the Salt Lake Valley and beyond has expanded, the bushes are becoming harder and harder to find. In fact, I didn't find much of anything on the internet that was recent either. But in 1922 U.P. Hedrick wrote the Cyclopedia of Hardy Fruits, Macmillan Co. (En must have come later). The horticultural name is P. Munsoniana and Hedrick said, "This variety is possibly of greater cultural value than any other of its species. The fruit is of high quality, the texture is especially pleasing in eating...and it keeps and ships very well...munsoniana plums grow without danger of winter injury to tree or bud as far north as the forty-fourth parallel." Hmmm. Suddenly I'm back in Idaho perusing our encyclopedias of gardening and planning the next year's garden... Anyway, I had never heard of Pottawattamie plums until recently. They don't appear to be cultivated as a crop commercially, but maybe one of the newer organic farms might take an interest. I hope the saplings can be ordered from certain plant nurseries but I've had no luck in finding them yet. But press on I will! The jelly tastes divine--tart and sweet at the same time, and the finished product is the most beautiful jewel red color, almost too lovely to eat.

Special People

Last week I flew non-stop to Salt Lake City; Madelyn flew in from Friday Harbor and we met at the airport. Our destination was our mom's house in White Rocks, but that evening we stayed with Clytie and Spence in Kaysville.

The Adams served a mission to California in 2005 and we became instant good friends. They showed up at my condo when my hair was in a ponytail and I was painting in preparation for a house-warming party. An eternal friendship was born.

I will long remember the other evening, the fire in the fireplace, the delicious meal, (the pottawattamie jelly!) the wonderful conversation. The four of us talked for hours and could have talked longer if we hadn't been so tired. I was proud to show my sister off to my friends and vice-versa! Before we left on Tuesday morning, Clytie gave me this picture of Brandon that was in her album. It was from their farewell party right before they returned home to Utah. Thank you so much. This picture brings back warm memories of Brandon and that time in our lives.

I Found it!

When we went through Brandon's things in October, I found some odds and ends that had been missing. For instance--I had the mixer while he had the beaters! Go figure. Anyway, amidst all the clothing, books and dishes, I found a stack of recipes that I've had for years. Some of you will be too young to remember, but women's magazines such as Women's Day and Family Circle, used to include recipe booklets that could be pulled out and either filed or put in a binder. I love the ratty old booklet in these pictures. I've had it for over 30 years. How do I know? Because the inside pages say "Women's Day December 1975"! Wow. That means I had been married only about a year when I started making this recipe for pound cake.

The cake travels well and slices nicely if you want to include some on a cookie plate; or make a whole one and sweeten up that persnickety neighbor. Whatever you decide, the cake is delicious! I've had a request for the recipe, so here it is:

Pound Cake
In medium bowl stir together 2 & 2/3 cup flour, 1/4 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp nutmeg (optional) and 1/4 tsp salt; set aside.

In large bowl cream 1 & 1/2 cups butter and 2 & 1/4 cups sugar until light and fluffly. Add 2 tsps grated lemon peel, 2 tsps vanilla, and 8 eggs, two at a time, mixing well between. Mixture will look a bit curdly but that's ok.

Add flour mixture to wet mixture all at once and mix at low speed until smooth and well blended. (Do not use a high speed as you'll whip air into the mixture and your pound cake will come out tough). Bake in 10 inch bundt pan at 325* for an hour and ten minutes. Cool for 5 minutes then transfer to cake plate. Store airtight in a container or wrap in plastic wrap. Do not refrigerate.

Infusion

I wore fur and diamonds today
took extra care with my makeup my hair
practiced my lines in the mirror
then marched in
and sat in the big chair
the same one I always sit in
by the window so I can
see my reflection
in the glass
only to discover
that everyone
was cheering and clapping for the silent
hairless man with the IV
sitting just across from me
in total
peaceful
surrender

Thank you, Cancer

for showing me how precious time is

a commodity of this world

wasted often

on petty worries and frustrations

owning too many things

bickering

planning way ahead for tomorrows over which I have no control

robbing myself of todays

but no more

wiggling my feet and toes every morning

stretching this 50+ frame

jumping out of bed each day or imagining

that I still can

to see who gets there first

me

or the sun

Thank you

for giving me a love of this body

that never cared about stretch marks

or fat

looking in the mirror

how often I berated her, and for what?

when I should have been saying

Thank you! You’re amazing! I love you!

that astonishing journey of carrying another soul

within mine

three times was I granted the privilege, three!

now I see a miracle every day

would never trade perkiness for the wisdom

these sagging breasts hold

or a dancer’s dreams

for discovering the abstract beauty

of varicose veins and stretch marks

triumphant scars of motherhood

and being female

and alive!

Thank you

for helping me open my mouth

that short span when I could neither breathe

nor sing

a gentle reminder

of how much I have to say

finding new notes I’m sure weren’t there before

were they?

speaking up more easily

and I’m still practicing and you are patient

but this I know

that stuffing it,

hurts

and for that

I am sorry

adjusting the direction I was headed

why did I care what they all thought?

or worry that my truths might

be different from theirs?

Thank you

for expanding my vision

I see them now

the ones I’ve passed so often as though they were invisible

what a little fool

when I thought it was all about me

perhaps I didn’t want to see because

I would have to learn how to get

out of my own way

acknowledge my own mortality

looming

like a vacant marquee sign

when all this time

you were just waiting for me

to fill in the blanks

Diversity

Last month while I was in California, Rachel and I did something we've only talked about doing for years--we went to a singing-clapping-rockinout kind of church in San Francisco--Glide Memorial, a non-profit started 40 years ago in the tenderloin district. What a fabulous experience. Glide resides in a large, old building on a corner. It isn't fancy. Someone pointed out that children who live there have never seen the Golden Gate bridge. So many experiences in life we take for granted! Two services are held in the chapel each Sunday to accommodate everyone, but don't imagine pristine and ceremonial. It was anything but. The chapel is old, the floors and benches are worn and the whole building needs a face lift, but never mind. The spirit of the people who attended more than made up for any physical deficiencies in our surroundings. Rachel and I attended the early service and sat in the middle just a few rows from the front. The band warmed up (yes, they have a 7 member band including brass!) and then the famous Glide Memorial Choir filed onto the stage. No robes, no costumes of any kind, just people in all their diversity. They didn't have any sheet music either, just voices and heart. When they began to sing, and boy, howdy, can they ever, the crowd stood up and sang with them. Honestly, I've never seen so many different ways to shake a booty, or had so much fun!

"I'm gonna do when the spirit say do!"

"Do when the spirit say do!"

"I'm gonna do, Oh Lord, when the spirit say do!"

"Do when the spirit say do!"

"I'm gonna laugh when the spirit say laugh...

"I'm gonna sing...dance..."

I taught this song to Soren after I came back to Maryland and he laughed out loud the minute I began to sing. Of course, I was clapping with the song the way I learned it--on the down and third beats; later we added our own extra verses...I'm gonna jump...hop...pray...eat...clap...He still grins from ear to ear whenever we sing it.

The meeting lasted 1 and 1/2 hours and was about 2/3 music and 1/3 talk. It's not the kind of Sunday I could do every week--I need my quiet, reflective time, but the experience was unique and joyful. I'm glad to have been a part of it. I loved the pastor's interpretation of the prodigal son, because it was all about hope and never giving up. I sat there looking around at the people from all walks of life from the wealthy to the homeless, listening to different languages being spoken around me, and I thought to myself that this is probably the purest San Francisco kind of experience anyone could have.

Glide feeds the homeless (as well as anyone else who wants to eat) three hot meals a day, 365 days a year. I hope the city of SF is subsidizing them in some way for all the work they do. In addition to serving approximately 70,000 meals per month, they have a youth program to help young people finish high school and find work, a day-care program, an after-school program, a drug and alcohol education program, and they just finished construction of a high-rise in SF that will provide permanent homes to 81 low-income families. What a great example of vision and how much love and determination can accomplish. If I ever live in the Bay Area again, I would love to do some volunteer work there.

The Party

First Born and Second Chances

Brandon was my first-born in the wilderness, son of my youth. He gave me motherhood in all its facets. He was my first pregnancy, my first labor and delivery, my first experience with breast-feeding and teething and diapering and loving thoroughly another perfect human being who depended on me completely for his life. On him I practiced, with him I was infatuated, from him I received much love as he was a cheerful baby, but on him I made the most mistakes. I didn't know nearly as much as I thought I did. As he grew up he became more and more independent--sometimes too independent to my way of thinking--and the problems, experiences, the trials, the joys, the successes, and even the mundane, all became more complicated because soon we were a family of four and then five, and Brandon was not just the first-born, he was the older brother, the one we expected to set the example for the others, the one who, no matter how old he became, was always the first child. Whether he was 12 or 22, my experiences with him were always new. Always a trial run. Always a crap shoot if I was doing it right or not. But Brandon seemed to be able to handle it.

Later as I grew in wisdom as a parent, I lamented the fact that I could do a much better job with Brandon if only I had the chance to do it over again. I got my wish July 30, 1998 when Brandon survived a major car accident. Horror. We didn't know it that day, but Brandon was going to come out of his coma a 200 lb infant; we were going to do all the things with him that we'd done the first time around. He had to relearn everything and we were going to re-raise him only this time with an upped ante--magnified personality traits, a man who didn't realize anything was mentally wrong, intense temporal lobe rages that put us in physical danger, an inability to reason, and all with the same strong independent will as before and a physical strength that returned well before his mental capabilities did. God help us all if he stopped progressing at 15! Thankfully, he didn't. But even in the most difficult circumstances we found some humor.

Shortly after Brandon first came home after three months in the hospital, he went from using a wheel chair to walking with a walker. His balance was very poor. The doctor had emphasized how devastating it would be if Brandon fell in the shower or anywhere and hit his head again. For that reason, one of us always followed him to the bathroom to stand guard in case he started to fall. Chantel even put on her bathing suit and helped him in the shower a couple of times. I remember one time in particular, Brandon went into the bathroom and I was close behind him. He was physically progressing rapidly and was irritated when any of us were in there with him. In frustration he turned around and hollered, "Well, you followed me in here-- do you want to hold my penis for me too while I take a piss?" There he was! The old Brandon! Shortly after that, he quit using the walker and we gave him back some privacy.

Another time, Larry, who had became Brandon's full-time-every-kind-of therapist, (fodder for another post) decided that he needed to increase the level of Brandon's physical activity. Brandon had surpassed every physical goal, from being able to walk to the corner and back, to walking around the track down at the school, to walking around the block and up the hill. Larry often brought the wheelchair with them in case Brandon needed it to get home, but one day he decided to sit in the wheelchair and let Brandon push him. That was the day that a neighbor drove by and scowled at Larry as if to say, "What a mean father you are, making that poor crippled boy push you up the hill!"

Remembering those times makes me proud of how the Dayley family sacrificed for Brandon and how hard he worked to 'come back.' It makes me marvel at how determined he was to overcome his limitations and to what degree Larry and Chantel and Clayton gave to make that happen. It makes me reflect with gratitude on the power of faith, the hundreds, maybe thousands of prayers that were offered up for all of us, and it makes me hopeful that I will have the opportunity to help the families of other head-injury victims, even if it's just a word of courage to them.

I do feel sad to remember how open ended our grief was in those days. The Brandon we knew had died, but his body had not. Although people sent numerous cards, and offered many prayers and messages of condolence, there was no funeral and no closure. We wore our grief like shackles, with no one to explain to us the grieving process or how to get through it. At the time, Brandon's accident was the worst trial I'd ever been through. I didn't think I'd ever go through anything more difficult than that. I was wrong. But would I go back and change those days? Fast forward over the early years to a place where Brandon was mature and confident and hopeful? Not a chance. I learned so much with him and from him, and from my family also. Those years were a gift, a blessing in the form of adversity. Brandon should have died in that car wreck. The day I stood at his gravesite and spoke was the day I realized that he didn't need to have been here, to struggle like he did these past ten years. It was the rest of us who were given the opportunities to grow. We became more patient, more understanding, more willing to give and do and love, more forgiving, more filled with compassion. And isn't that the idea? To return home with honor to our Heavenly Father and Mother, having received the experiences we came to earth for? Sometimes I ask myself: If I had the chance to relive those years, knowing what I know now, would I? My answer is always the same: You bet your life. And mine too. In a heartbeat.

Birthday Night

Look at this face! Do you think she knows something that I didn't? She did! I was told what time to be ready, and that's about it. Rachel picked me up at Clayton's house around 5 0'clock. Oh, no! A woman off the street! Naomi was walking down Howe Road in Martinez and said she just happened to be bringing me a birthday gift. She climbed in the truck with us and off we went.
Rachel insisted I wear the birthday hat and wrap, complete with fashionable (!@@!) sunglasses.
We went first to Va de Vi in Walnut Creek where every item is served elegantly in a small portion. Everyone at the table shares. Dinner was the most exquisite combination of flavors I've ever experienced, and our waiter was superb. Below are pictures of just two of the nine items we enjoyed.
After dinner we walked several blocks to the Performing Arts Center in Walnut Creek to see the opening night of "42nd St"--relevant because about ten years ago, Rachel and Naomi and I got to see "42nd St." on 42nd St in New York City! What memories! The significance of the night was not lost on me. A wonderful birthday celebration. Thank you, Rachel and Naomi!

Birthday Day

On my birthday, I went to San Ramon with Michele and Rolan to Nana's (Barbara's) house and we enjoyed lunch together. A lovely way to start the day. Barbara is Rolan's great-grandmother, and a delight to be around. These pictures were taken in the kitchen and living room of her inviting home.



A home grown birthday gift from Barbara

Thoughtful sweetness
Raviolis and Salad
Honey, who stayed outside but couldn't help watching us through the kitchen window

Michele

I've discovered during this trip to California that Michele is not only a wonderful mother to Rolan, she is also witty and very thoughtful. She listens when people talk and finds ways to give that are meaningful and relevant. For example, yesterday, Michele drove me (as a surprise) to Berkeley to a hand-made paper store. She knows that I adore handmade paper and love surprises, so she went to the trouble of calling around then checking the internet. I wasn't allowed to know where we were going until we got there. We didn't go to just any old paper store either. It was a small place but filled with gorgeous hand-made Japanese paper, some of the most intricate and elaborate paper made. The work that goes into some of it! Stunning! And of course, some sheets were quite expensive, but perusing the merchandise was an experience and I found several gorgeous sheets to bring home for my next book art project. Michele said the trip wasn't for my birthday--just because. I was so touched by her thoughtfulness. And in the process, we enjoyed discovering a new, artsy kind of shopping area in Berkeley off the Gilman exit, my old stomping grounds. Thank you, Michele. A day to remember!

My Baby

Clayton, like his father, is a very hard worker. He is just as adorable sleeping at 25 as he was at 2 and 1/2! Son, I'm very proud of the way you take such good care of your little family.

Influence

Years ago when I was fighting with my oldest and almost regretting motherhood in its entirety, a counselor explained that within every family is a member who acts as the thermometer. That person takes upon themselves the role of checking the family's health with the ultimate job of doing whatever is necessary to keep them all together, even if that means, and for us it frequently did, that the mission is accomplished through strife and contention, which takes the focus off the areas that aren't working as well, and transfers the attention to the one causing the problems, much like a decoy--Hey! Over here! Not ideal, of course, but it works. But what happens when the one playing that role one is gone? Does someone else take it on, or is the family left to stand or fall, depending on its strength as a whole? Is the thermometer role just for the growing years, or is there always someone around trying to take a temperature?

I think about the first family picture taken without him, at the cemetery in Idaho where we'd driven in order to bury him in the only town he ever truly called home. A blustery afternoon. We squint into the coldness of a spring sun; elevation 5000 ft. Windswept hair. Mouths drawn crooked like the stick figures we'd become. I wonder if his absence has changed the dynamics somehow, of if we have become what we would have regardless. Memory says that his presence all those busy uspside down years, and his great needs during the past ten years, served to keep us together in a unique way. Maybe its supposed to be this way now. The four of us. In ways it is easier. No fighting between siblings. No phone calls from the neighbors, the police, the hospital. I think about the photo again but it is wrong. The wind gusted that day and hollowed a space where he should have been standing, with his strong arms around one of us or another. On better days I'll tell myself that he was there all along. It was only mortality and lack of faith blurring my vision. But other times I'll always wonder: What happens to the family when the thermometer breaks?

Caterpillar

The grieving process is personal and solitary, and yet, I am the MOM. And somehow, that means that I should have the answers, or can find them, in spite of my own grief, that I can kiss the hurts and make them all better. I read my daughter's blog entry recently and cried, for her sorrows and mine. I wonder if I haven't been there enough for her, if somehow in our separate journies we've put on a good front for one another when maybe we needed to cry together. Or maybe she is grieving in the best way for her and the fact that she can write about it with such honesty is evidence of strong, emotional and spiritual health. Still, I am shocked to realize that yesterday was the six month anniversary of Brandon's death and I lived the entire day--me--the one who is organized and sentimental and aways starts new endeavors at the beginning of the month or the week, yet, somenow, I missed the day's significance. How did that happen? Lying here in this room three thousand miles across the country from Maryland, I realize that Michele has made a collage of pictures for Rolan, all the people of significance in his life, and I'm grateful. She hung it low on the wall, at his eye level, and mine at this moment; thoughts of Rolan remind me of the continuity of life even when I feel the world has stopped revolving; his sweetness is balm to my spirit. One picture grabs my attention--taken in 2005 when Clayton was moving to San Diego. We had a party for him then, at the Martinez Marina and we posed together, the five of us. Fire and water. Moonlight and sun. I have a copy of that photo in my apartment in Baltimore but today I see details I hadn't noticed before. The uneven slant of Brandon's shoulders after the accident, the minuscle web of lines in Larry's and my faces, the result of full lives--the kind I haven't always prayed for, but began to, perhaps in my thirties, when I began to look back and see not just the expense of adversity, but the gifts I've received in the process. And even though my awareness of the costs grows every year, death and sorrows, divorce and illnesses, it is a full life, the only kind worth experiencing. I know that the faith my daughter wrote about has the power to heal us and our broken bodies and broken lives. It's the same faith that sent a dawn breeze through the open window this morning when only the lower edge of the night sky was turning gray, then lavendar, then pink. It's the same faith that assured me of Clayton's birth long before its reality and I can't imagine his never being here--especially now. The words "my son" have taken on a whole different meaning. The faith that turns the world on its axis is the same faith that causes trees and plant life to reach up, in spite of wind and rain and ice. And I still want that, life in all its raw beauty, even the blackness against which all other lights shine.




I look at the photo again. Brandon on one end, body language defying his limitations. A strong arm around his smiling sister who appears to be almost bursting in the joy of being with her brothers. Brandon pulls her against him, while her upper body leans slightly against Clayton. Clayton in the center, deep smile, arms wide with one around Chantel and the other around me. Larry standing on the other end, leaning into me and suddenly, I see it. We are the caterpillar. Parts that move independently, but dependent upon one another. Together in spite of our seperateness, coming together to make up the whole, even if just once in awhile. Brandon is close by. Chantel and Clayton are loving and strong. Larry is a part me. Forever. And for today, it is enough.

Waiting on Breakfast at Carrows

Bathtime

Sweet September Morning

6:30 AM, my first morning back in California, Clayton brought a sleepy Rolan in my room and put him in my arms.

My Mother, My Friend

Dear, Dear Mother,

Today is your birthday and just one of many times that I think about all those years we spent together in Idaho. Remember when I was 16 and newly married? We lived downstairs in your and Dad's big brick house on Palmer Rd. You never complained about that. Every night you cooked dinner and every night we gathered around the kitchen bar, blessed the food, and ate. You cooked simply, Mother, and I know that sometimes you felt that your food wasn't fancy enough, especially compared to the way my mother cooked. Hers was just different, that's all. I tried to assure you that your food was delicious but I don't know that you were ever convinced. You fixed chicken, roast beef, or hamburger patties, mashed or baked potatoes, gravy, a canned vegetable (usually green beans) and sometimes a salad or beet pickles from the fruit room downstairs. Chicken was either fried in the big black iron skillet, or put in the oven in a roasting pan and nobody could match your milk gravy! (Brandon never stopped talking about it as long as he lived). Beef was always roasted surrounded by potatoes and carrots. And steak from the grass-fed beef was sometimes substituted for hamburger. For dessert you served homemade fruit pie (remember how you'd make 12 at a time and freeze them?), jello salad, or canned peaches which you and Dad bottled every summer. You always set the bar with your everyday dishes--white Corelle ware with the yellow gold trim, plastic gold tumblers, paper napkins, salt and pepper, slices of homemade bread, and ice in our cups. Dad drank soda pop every night and you usually drank water. Larry and I usually drank soda pop or milk, but sometimes you fixed Koolaide. Larry's place was on the round stool closest to the wall, giving his left-handed elbow freedom to move. I sat next to him on his right, and Dad sat a space down from me, closest to the telephone. As the children came, the bar accomodated them and their high chairs, too. I never told you how much it meant to me for all those happy times around that kitchen bar, happier than any other place I can think of. And over the years, you sat across from all of us in the corner where the big cabinets that Dad built joined each other so you could get to the stove or refrigerator easily if we wanted seconds.

Sunday meals were the same as every day meals except for more choices of food, and then you used the clear glass tumblers with the painted flowers on them. Only when we had large family gatherings did we eat around the dining room table and the bar. I loved it when you used your pretty china with the roses on them and a tablecloth to protect the dining room set you'd inherited from your sister, Marvel. Age determined who sat at the dining table and who sat at the bar with preferential treatment oldest to youngest, but the kids didn't seem to mind where they ate since they were always hungry for your home cooking. If we had a really, really large group, the adults fed the kids first, sent them outside or downstairs, and then we ate. How I miss those precious times together in that house. You and Dad were my parents in almost every sense of the word.

Only one experience with you gives me cause for chagrin and that was shortly after Larry and I were married. I don't think that I ever thanked you for it and the lesson you and Dad taught me about growing up and taking adult responsibility.

After our family dinners, Larry and I jumed up from the table and usually went downstairs or outside. Sometimes we joined Dad in the den to watch television. Several weeks went by and one night Dad took Larry aside and told him, "You guys are not children anymore. Marci should help Mother with the dishes after we eat." Needless to say, when Larry told me, I was mortified. I knew better than that! I guess I was so wrapped up in my own life that it never occurred to me to lend you a hand. Typical teenager. I simply hadn't stopped to think about the work and sacrifices you were making for us, and indeed, I felt like one of your own from the beginning. I guess you could say that, married or not, that's when I began to grow up. I was eager to jump in and help you after that and you always thanked me. Looking back, I realize that all those after- dinner times together formed the basis for our life-long friendship. My memories of putting food away, washing out the gold porcelain sink, and washing and drying off the big counter are sweet ones. I even love the memory of how you always put your little dish with the plastic fruit in the center of the bar after we were finished. I have that dish now and it's a reminder of you and all you taught me. I will love you forever! Happy Birthday, Mother.

What's in a Name? A Whole Lot!!

I've always thought it would be fun to write a book about people's nick names. There are so many strange ones out there, and the sources of them are even more interesting, the same with real names. Some years ago I was working at Rachel's factory during the holiday season and the phones were ringing non-stop. I decided to help the sales department and answer calls for awhile. The caller was from Florida and she wanted to place an order. After taking down her items, the call went pretty much like this:

"May I have your name?"

"XXoody"

"I'm sorry, can you spell that for me?"

"Yes, Trudy. T-R-U-D-Y."

"Oh! Trudy! I thought you said Poody!"

"POOOOODY! Lawrrrdd!" She was practically screaming into the telephone.

"It was bad enough with Trudy--you know, kids and all, 'Trudy, Trudy, fat and fruity' but if my parents had named me Poody why I'd have to kill em!"

"Well, I grew up in the South too, and I have this cousin named Cynthia but everyone has always called her Pody..."

Yes, in spite of my talking without thinking, the woman did finalize her order. Good thing she had a sense of humor.

Past and present nicknames in our families include but are not limited to (but don't ask me who's who; I'll never tell): Wimba, Dode, Boh, Guh, Bear, Sweet Pea, Bug, Wells, Blondie, Muffin, Moose Poose, Mother Brain, Lawrence of Arabia You Cool Dude You, Telbell, The Budster, Brandony Baloney, Toasty Toad, Sis, Chantilly Lace, Vee, Monkey, Pooty, Mama Jama Salama, Pops, Aunty M, Nicholasmouse, Ebird, Booger, Jiddy, Punk, Raisin, Rye Girl, Rye Boy, and Sweety Peety.

Let me know if there's a name you'd like added to the list!

I found out

yesterday that Paul, a friend of Brandon's, died recently. I was devastated, especially for Paul's aunt and her family who are cherished and long-time friends. I've tried several times to write about all the feelings that emerged as a result of this news, but there's a limit to what should be shared in a blog. Sometimes life's most sacred events call for privacy and intimacy between friends and this is one of those.

I wrote this last night in the middle of the night, not as poetry, but trying to define the experience which was too real to call a dream, and too wonderful to say it wasn't.

realm skipping again
in my sleep
Brandon and Paul are laughing,
making puns of human vocabulary
suddenly archaic and unnecessary
here
in this ivory twilight between rest and dawn
more laughter between them
brown eyed boys to men and
I hold my breath,
and love this place, this interaction,
and whoever gave me permission to see it,
thank you! Oh,
if I could linger just a bit
longer pretend
I belong here too but,
too late
I have returned
to where moonlight embellishes
these periwinkle walls
and a mound of pillows cradles
this mortal frame
I will sleep now
even though more laughter,
the kind that only men can make,
deep chested and uproarious
continues to echo
my return

Beauty and Disorder

Beauty and disorder reside together very nicely in my apartment as you'll see from the pictures below. I love being able to work on projects (in this case 30 years of photos) and leave everything out indefinitely. Whenever I return from being out, everything is right where I left it.