New Year

Already, it is upon us. Forget the fact that the clutter I vowed to eliminate last year is still here (along with the 25 pounds--and a few of their friends--that haven't made it out the door yet either.) The novel-in-the-making is still half-made, and I don't think I've cleaned out the storage space either. Nor are the many journals--in fact, ANY journals--filled with daily writings. I am still the crabby, selfish, paper-hoarding, procrastinating, non-exercising slug that I was last year at this time, more's the pity, and now, here comes another New Year to rub it in my face.

On the other hand...This year I have become , truly become, a Nana--recognized as such by an adorable, preternaturally intelligent and beautiful child named Audrey. I have been part of an unusually talented, interesting, well-read and culturally-aware group of women (who somehow have not realized my lack of qualification) who meet for lunch each month. My writing group is still intact and provides a wonderful outlet for trying out ideas and writings. As my poet-laureate term draws to an end, I have finally convinced myself that I am a poet. Maybe not the Billy Collins of my time, but someone who has something to say that other people respond to. I even (by virtue of my unfortunate medical issue this fall) was allowed to see that I have more friends and well-wishers than I ever believed possible, who came out in force to help and support me and my family when we needed it most. I have seen the concern of my husband and family, and know, beyond doubt, that I have more than my share of love.

"Our reach should always exceed our grasp, or what's a heaven for?" --or words to that effect. I've always been good at making lists, but have never been much on following through. So. Clutter and weight and unfinished writing and unfinished cleaning be damned. It's been a pretty good year, by all the standards that count. This week, I'll add a few more goals to that New Year's list, with no guarantees that they will be achieved. Just letting everyone know that I'm a work in progress...

Snowing

I wake to unearthly quiet--

a distant jingle that could be Santa,

wending his way home--

but it’s a few days too early

and a more wakeful me would recognize the sound:

chains on snowplow tires,

gnawing on the pristine landscape of King Street,

making ready for the inevitable

daily influx from suburb to city--

a slow one today,

judging by the almost-silence,

yet to be broken by

newscasters

measuring, pointing, questioning,

warning, freezing, gesturing

reporting

the overnight everyday miracle

of snow.

Snowtravaganza

I can't really remember the last time we had a white Christmas...but I can guarantee that, at least in my memory, there has never been one like this. On Saturday, December 19, we watched it snow. And snow. And snow. We spent the day taking pictures of our disappearing patio furniture (why do people always take pictures of their lawn furniture when it snows?), the yardstick planted firmly at 8 AM in 8 inches of snow on the table. We (JC, that is; I was not allowed) ventured out occasionally to shovel the snow that was encroaching on the doors and threatening to seal us inside. The day ended with about 17-18 inches on the ground (and table)--a record for December snowfall.

It is pretty, and we have the pictures to prove it. But snow is also a phenomenal nuisance when it comes down to everyday living. All jokes about toilet paper, milk and bread aside, it gets difficult to do all the stuff we need to do on a daily basis, particularly when serious attention has to be paid to avoiding slips and falls and the possible disastrous results. Doctors' appointments, lab visits, even our furnace and heat pump check-up may need rearrangement. Parties have been canceled or re-scheduled, dinners postponed, and we are enjoying a strange variety in our own meals, which are dependent on what happens to be in the freezer and pantry.

Add to that the physical hard labor of shoveling this mountainous pile of snow that envelops the area....though we were fortunate in having some itinerant shovelers shanghaied by a neighbor into clearing a car-width path up our alley (now, of course, reduced to an ice floe by last night's re-freeze.) Still, even when we get out of the alley and onto a secondary road, the sidewalk paths are narrow and inexpertly cleared. Some are blocked with yellow tape, warning of potential roof slides of snow, along with icicles hanging from 3rd-story roof lines that could skewer the unwary passer-by if they took the notion to break free at the wrong time. Intersections are slushy and/or frozen into solid ruts that are slippery and irregular and dangerous to pedestrians (as well as the drivers) who traverse them.

BUT Christmas is coming, and though the stockings may not be stuffed as full as they usually are (Mrs. Santa having been confined to home and hearth by the blizzard) there should be no dearth of good cheer. Though Christmas dinner may be non-traditional if the cook can't get to the grocery store, Christmas will be as it should be: more attuned to who is around the table than what is on it, more concerned with the love around the tree than the gifts arrayed under it, and more focused on Who has come than on where we have to go.

God bless us, every one. (And please, please, please melt this stuff!)

Decking the Halls...

"I'm not ready..." I whine, but in the words of the Grinch, "..somehow or other, it came just the same." We're talking Christmas here, as you've no doubt figured out. My living and dining rooms look like an explosion at the North Pole, blessedly sans elf body parts. Boxes, bags, knickknacks, stuffed animals, Santas, ornaments, candles...and more boxes. No wonder we have a storage space as big as our house. Half of it is Christmas. And unfortunately, part of it is still in storage. I can't seem to locate my tree skirt, my Nativity set, my fake pine roping (did I throw it away last year?) or any number of other Christmas necessities. Jake, however, had no trouble finding his niche as I readied the big wreaths for the outside windows..Here is a cat in search of a Friskies modeling contract.

I haven't put out the Christmas dishes, or assembled any greenery--and somehow the sticks and dried flowers and berries of Thanksgiving don't say "Christmas" to me. On the plus side, the tree has been delivered and is smelling very Christmas-y. It looks like someone designed it for a Christmas card--perfectly shaped, with nice full branches: no 'holes' to be filled with strategically-placed lights and ornaments. It is the prettiest tree we've had in a couple years. Yet to be decorated with lights and ornaments.

I am now faced with the annual 15-puzzle task of moving our belongings around in order to make room for decorations. If the hydrangea wreath is moved to a box, I can take the red wreath out of its box and hang it. If the Thanksgiving candles are removed, I can put them in the space currently occupied by the red candles in the sideboard. If I empty the storage box with the Christmas stockings, will there be room for the rabbit from the mantle and the pictures from the shelves which need to be moved so I can put out the Santa collection...? And hovering over all these questions is the big one: if I put this away somewhere, will I ever find it again?

Fa-la-la.

Audrey

It doesn't take much to turn me into mush nowadays. I think I used to be pretty tough. I shed the occasional tear when E.T wanted to phone home. I was a little weepy at weddings and funerals, but never anything that a single tissue couldn't manage. Sending the girls off to college, graduations, welcoming Kay home for the holidays from Arizona...these were pretty standard events that would generate a few tears, happy or sad.

But last week, we were loading our granddaughter into the carseat, and she pointed her little finger at me with a grin as big as all outdoors and clearly said, "Nana!" Now I must admit that when she first arrived, the most exciting feature of her visit was neither me nor her grandfather. She made a beeline for Jake, signing and saying "kitty" simultaneously. I doubt Jake's heart was going pitty-pat at the recognition, however. His was no doubt screaming into 'fight or flight' mode, though he was polite enough to allow a few minutes of patting and petting, proving that his manners were at least as good as this child's.

But "Nana" is what she said when she saw me, and no single word has carried that much weight in a long time. Despite living a country apart, despite constant exposure to her other grandparents, despite our brief and frenetic visits, she KNOWS us. She is not afraid of us. She doesn't cower behind her mom and dad or cry when we come near. What a gift to be able to pick her up and snuggle her close! What a gift to see her face light up, and to hear her giggle at these foolish grown-ups who will do almost anything to make her laugh. What a gift it is to see this little blonde elf toddling off purposefully with a little red bucket filled with treasures she's collected in our house: a spoon, a bowl, a toy, some 'O's or some discarded peas she's found in her high chair. Even her constant efforts to climb the stairs (requiring adult pursuit) or to fiddle with the buttons of the laptop or the printer, or to explore the recesses of every unsecured cabinet and cupboard...these are reminders of her need to know and grow and practice all the myriad skills that we take so much for granted. From language to physical accomplishment to interpersonal relationships, she is absorbing information at a phenomenal rate, and in the process, generates a sort of electricity that captivates the people around her.

What a fabulous thing, to be part of this little human being's education process...How wonderful to be her Nana.

Observations

It can't be December yet. Did I tear October AND November off the calendar by mistake? I haven't even ordered a tree. Christmas decorations are still in storage, and I have yet to retrieve my cookie recipes from my recipe file. Furthermore, I haven't even asked anyone what they want for Christmas. I haven't cleared my freezer for the influx of a turkey and assorted Christmas goodies. I haven't started making lists--the multitudinous Excel spreadsheets that tell me who is getting/has gotten what and where I need to go to get it and what I need from the grocery to make boiled custard. There is not a single egg or a single box of cream cheese in my refrigerator. No extra flour or sugar. No pounds of butter. No candied fruit. I haven't plotted my shopping routes or figured out when gifts must be in the mail, or, God help me, even THOUGHT about a Christmas letter or cards or stamps...I don't even have my generic hostess gifts assembled and tied up prettily. I don't even have them bought. I am usually more prepared.

I have a precious few gifts ordered online, and there are always the 'don't-count' presents that were purchased and distributed ahead of time because they were needed and couldn't wait to be wrapped and placed under the tree. They are always sort of the 'underwear for Christmas' kind of presents. They may be necessary, and get huge points for utility, but they lack the surprise factor, or, more importantly, the 'just what I always wanted' exclamation point upon opening. Christmas morning should be exciting for both the giver and the one who receives. Right now, the only excitement being generated is in the form of suspense: will I or will I not manage to transform my house, my schedule, my plans into Christmas reality? Tick-tock.

Reining in...

Okay. I get carried away. Re-reading my last entry, I'm a bit embarrassed. While it was true, and how I felt at the time, I think I tend toward the dramatic. I'm okay. Crisis avoided. Active imagination (Omigod! What IF....?) reigned in.

Now we're down to the everyday stuff--returning to normal at the beginning of the least normal time of the year. If all continues well, and I have no reason to believe it won't, I will be back to all the usual daily annoyances and activities by mid-week. Which is wonderful, really. No more twice-daily injections and every-other-day blood-letting. Those alone would be pretty cheer-inducing. But right now, I'm working on regaining my equilibrium, one task at a time. Laundry. Clutter removal. A meal. A walk. Two trips up the stairs instead of one a day. Slow and steady, like the old tortoise.

I'm making lists, of course...but that is just me. Most of my lists never get completed: they are there just so I know what needs to be done and don't forget. Due to this brief sidelining, they are a little longer than usual, but I'll manage.

Hell Week

Hard to believe that less than a week ago, I mentioned life-or-death medical decisions. Also hard to believe that, less than a week ago, I rolled out of bed, showered, dressed and had breakfast, rummaged in the kitchen for stuff for dinner, threw in a load of laundry, hopped in the car, went shopping, stopped at the cleaners, got gas, came home and made a conscious decision NOT to clean the attic, or put mulch on the flowerbed. Hard to believe that last week I could do any or all of those things. Hard to believe that last week was normal.

This week, I'm doing nothing. I wake up and wonder if getting out of bed is worth how much it might hurt. I weigh each action against its consequences. How long can I stand up before my leg hurts? How much can I do before I am tired out? I measure my movements according to the places in between where I can sit and rest. I curse myself for not being organized and for having pants and shirts and sweaters and socks spread out over two rooms, two closets and three dressers. I feel ancient and fragile and far more helpless than I want to be. And scared. Don't forget scared.

I AM slowly returning to normalcy. This morning, my back didn't scream when I sat up. I managed a shower and got dressed without pausing between the two for a rest. I came downstairs and actually made myself a couple pieces of toast and poured a glass of orange juice. I heated up my lunch. I may make a cup of tea this afternoon. Small victories.

I've had issues with my ankle swelling up for YEARS. I got a new pair of walking shoes a week ago Sunday, and while I was trying them out at home to see if I wanted to keep them, the inside of my left ankle swelled up and started to hurt. So--with JC nagging me--I made a podiatrist appointment to see if I'd pulled something or strained something. I went in last Friday and the guy found nothing. My ankle was still swollen, but it had stopped hurting, and I wasn't too concerned. He recommended getting an MRI so we could track down the issue, and to (meanwhile) wrap the ankle in an Ace bandage to stabilize the ligaments. So I did that when I got home Friday evening.

That night, my leg was swollen to the knee and hurt..sort of like shin splints, only all around instead of just in front. I spent Saturday gimping around and sitting with the leg elevated (the swelling had not gone down overnight). Sunday was more of the same, and JC nagged me into going to an Urgent Care center after lunch. I was still thinking a strained ligament or something like that. The doctor said I should get a Doppler to rule out deep vein thrombosis, but the only place available on a Sunday was the ER. So we went to Alexandria Hospital and sat.

I got the Doppler, but not before a nurse noticed (when I got up and walked across the hall) that I had three visible knots on the back of my calf (who looks at the back of your own leg?) and (amazingly) I was picked up immediately and wheeled right in for the Doppler. When I was done, they were there with a doctor to admit me and a dose of blood thinner to inject into me. He said I'd get three more days of injections, and then coumadin for the next six months with regular blood tests to check on the dosage.

So..bottom line: it turned out to be a little worse than they thought. Initially they said I had a clot or clots essentially the length of my leg. On further looks at the Doppler stuff, they saw it was a femoral clot, which meant it was even closer to my heart, and so they needed to treat it more aggressively: TEN days of the injections and coumadin still for 6-9 months. Blood work every two days, tapering off to once a week for the duration.

Sunday and Monday: Hospital, bad food, bed rest, no sleep, general discomfort, LOTS of blood drawn, but stuck there, whether I liked it or not. Tuesday they released me with instructions on how to do the injections and saying "activities, as tolerated" I ended up not tolerating much. That night, my lower back was killing me and I was running a low grade fever--which the doctor told me when I called Wednesday morning, were the exact symptoms of intraperitoneal hematoma, which is a rare side effect of blood thinners, and I'd better come back for a CAT scan and (MORE!!!) bloodwork immediately. Oh, and if those proved positive, I could plan on being readmitted and having to have a filter surgically implanted. This was just getting better and better.

Four hours, some noxious barium drinks, a CAT scan, and several black and blue attempts at finding new veins to poke at, they told me everything was fine. The back was just my ordinary bad back (aggravated, I am sure, by the godawful hospital bed) and the fever--who knows? But...I am home, and actually feeling semi-human. I hate all this stuff, but no matter how much it hurts, it sure beats not waking up in the morning. Which apparently was a very real possibility if I had ignored the symptoms and figured (as I usually do) that it will get better or go away. I am now a card-carrying hypochondriac and will do anything that my doctor tells me to do. Bed rest? Yessir! I am there. How long?

The oddest part is that I have none of the risk factors: no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no family history of clots or strokes, no HRT, no injuries to the leg, no plane rides, no long confinement to bed, no nothing. This just happened. Out of the blue. And fast. I suppose if it hadn't been so inexplicable, I wouldn't have gone to the doctor at all..but when things happen suddenly, for no apparent reason, it's worth checking out. And fast.

And the take-home lesson from all this? Don't take it all for granted. Don't put off till tomorrow. Don't believe it can't happen to you. Pay attention when something is wrong because it's better to get a negative diagnosis than to find out too late that the "impossible" just happened. I honestly believe that JC and Sarah and Kay and all the friends who said "Go get that checked out" may have saved my life. Thank you all.

Word Problems

When I was growing up, we had math problems. Somewhere between my grade-school experience and my daughters', a distinction arose. There were math problems that consisted of simply numbers and operations...and there were word problems. The former variety were simple; all you had to do was add, subtract, multiply or divide the given numbers till you came up with an answer. The latter were a different story. (Oddly enough, they are also called 'story problems'.) These are the legendary questions that begin "A train leaves Southville at 10:45 am; a second train leaves Northville a half hour later..." These are the problems of which nightmares are made. Not only do you have to perform the right operations, but you have to figure out what the operations are, and often, what the numbers themselves are. The possibilities for error are limitless. These problems were made for the invention of 'partial credit'.

Now, I always used to enjoy the challenge of this type of problem--though I realize many of my compadres did not. I liked figuring out the puzzle of what stood for what, and how to convert real-life activity to neat numerical representations. (Imagine the thrill when I found out that calculus allowed me to figure out the volume of a doughnut, or some other fanciful shape!) I majored in chemistry, and the math involved only made that study more amazing to me.

But..back to real life and the mathematical transcription thereof. My students, when faced with this type of problem, always moaned and groaned that they hated word problems! Of course they did. They demanded more; insisted that they really understand what was going on...Horrors! My patented response was that life itself was a word problem--and it is. There is hardly ever a clear-cut equation or set of operations that will answer any of the questions that arise in day-to-day living. The problems are always messy variations of Northville and Southville, with limited time and resources available, and you've got to come up with some sort of answer, whether you understand all the parameters or not. If nothing else, word problems teach us how to set out what we know in an organized fashion--and then think about what we need to find out before we try to build a bridge from here to there.

Sometimes the Northville train ends up on a siding, or Southville's takes a detour, depending on our level of competence. Sometimes we throw up our hands in dismay, and walk away down the track. The problems vary in importance from what to have for dinner to how to deal with aging parents, from deciding where the safest place is for retirement funds to life-or-death medical decisions. Nothing is easy, but unlike the situation in your math workbook, there is usually more than one good enough answer: not perfect, not all-encompassing, not incontrovertible, but good enough, all the same. I can live with that.

Rain

Today is the second day in a row of constant rain. Perhaps it is that it coincided with turning our clocks back not too long ago, but the combination of early darkness and gray skies has served to depress what seems to be the lion's share of people I come in contact with. Unfortunately, it also seems to be a harbinger of the long winter months when the sun never seems to be as warm or bright, and the cold temperatures discourage any unnecessary outdoor activity. Bah, humbug! San Diego is looking pretty good right now.

On the poetry front, the City is working at finding a replacement for me when my term ends in March. I am still getting requests, though. Next week, I will be reading at Adoption Day at the courthouse, and I always seem to pick up a few requests along the way every time I do something like that. And, of course, Poetry Month looms in April, as well as Poem In Your Pocket Day, which is scheduled for April 29 this year. One hopes that I will have a little more lead time to prepare for that and/or help my successor to get it off the ground this year again.

But for now, even this blog is stale and lackluster. I think I used this picture before, and certainly, the sentiments are pretty tired. It is time, I think, to either pray for sun, or start laughing at the gloom. Maybe tomorrow.

Advent devotional

In a moment of weakness, I agreed again to edit the church's Advent devotional booklet. (Translation: I signed up to look up the bible readings for each day in Advent, troll for writers, nag until pieces are turned in, turn my brain inside out trying to keep the spatial arrangement of pages-in-a-booklet-format straight in my head, read and punctuate and grammar-scan and type or cut-and-paste everything into the same format, font, and arrangement, design a cover, then proofread, copy, print, fold and staple 150 copies plus a bunch of large-print versions, and then furnish the newsletter with weekly bites for those who prefer to get their devotions online...)

All right. I did temporarily take leave of my senses. I started in October, and it now looks like I may actually have it all together by the week before Advent begins. Depending on the vagaries of Xerox machines and schedules and whether or not my cover stock will jam the machine more frequently than usual. (It WILL jam it; it really is just a question of how often and how badly.)

My reward (presented by me, to me, and for me) for this effort is that I get to put my contribution wherever I want it and to write whatever I want without fear of being edited out. This year it's a poem (surprise) which I completed (Well, that's debatable. I reserve the right to mess around with it some more if I so desire...) this morning. The nice thing is...it's done. I can use it for writing group on Monday. I can use it for my Christmas cards. I can use it for the booklet. By god, I can whip it out for any or all occasions between now and the new year. Ahhhhh..... (printed below)

What Remains

After the hoopla,

the cards, and the lists and the shopping,

the anguish

of choosing gifts for all and sundry;

after the baking and parties and eggnog,

the cookies and candy and

the well-documented visits to Santa;

after tree and lights and music,

the midnight magic of a semi-darkened church

with its candles and carols and greetings;

after the perfect storm of people, paper, tape and tags

that we call Christmas

is finally done…

When the last child falls asleep,

sticky-mouthed and cranky

from too much of everything;

when the last airport shuttle has departed,

and the final car abandons the driveway;

when the guest room is empty,

and the boxes crushed,

and the last strand of ribbon

trails out of the trashcan;

when the tree lies, dry and exhausted,

at the curb for pickup,

its ornaments boxed and stored;

when normal comes back from its Christmas vacation…

What remains

is the memory of a baby

and the promise and the hope He brings.

What remains,

even when the world returns to black and white

from the red/green/sparkly snow-globe of December,

What remains,

like a warm, sweet treasure in our hearts,

even in the depths of disappointment,

discouragement, and dreary day-to-day,

What remains is this truth, this wonder, this blessing::

He is here, and dwells among us.

Adoption Day poem...

This is really my family--at least one part of my mom's side; I'm the 11th kid from the right in the second row-- my mom is 6th from the right in the 2nd row from the top. You can click on the picture to enlarge it...my grandmother and great-grandmother are there, too...

Family

Laughter, first.

but also

disagreement and compromise;

breakfast, lunch, and sharing.

Being together , being apart.

Soccer games and baseball

and drama, always drama.

Inside jokes and secret smiles.

Chores and jobs and the peripatetic car.

Washing windows, mowing lawns,

riding bikes and jumping rope;

and laundry, oh, the laundry!

Late-night movies, Saturday cartoons.

Hot chocolate on a winter’s day,

and popsicles in the summer.

Being part of something bigger

than yourself alone.

Teasing and scolding;

flower gardens and backyard swings.

Toys and hand-me-downs,

roller skates

and notes from the teacher.

Forgotten homework, remembered birthdays,

Grandma, Grandpa,

aunts, uncles, cousins.

Holidays and holy days,

Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day --

and

for all the rest of the year,

hearts around a kitchen table.

Family.

Back to Work

I can tell that fall is here, because, once again, requests are coming in for the services of the poet laureate. Yesterday, I visited Hammond Middle School; I have a poem pending for Adoption Day (if the requester ever contacts me again...I failed to write down her name and number, and instead, asked her to email me with the details. Still waiting.) In addition, I have a reading scheduled for another group next Tuesday, and had a request this morning that I was obliged to turn down, due to a prior family commitment that week.

Little did I know, when I first applied for the position, that it would be so popular. I had envisioned beating the proverbial bushes for venues and for groups before whom I'd preach the poetry gospel. I was mistaken. After almost three years of simply responding to requests, it's clear that Alexandria has a desire for poetry, at least for its schools, its children, and its observance of special events. Add to that the individual interest exhibited by senior center groups and social contacts that I've made, and it's clear that Councilman Ludwig Gaines knew what he was talking about when he championed the establishment of the office.

Over the past few years, I've had a chance to observe what people seem to want of me. Accessible poetry is one thing: something they can understand and relate to. (There may be a bit of bias on my part here.) Secondly, involvement in the community. That involvement can mean appearance in our classrooms, or participation in local events, like the Alex Awards or the Birthday Celebration, or the dedication of buildings, or the celebration of our own citizens' accomplishments, whether they be elementary school students or City Councilmen. Oddly enough, though it was emphatically not listed as part of the duties of the office, what I've enjoyed most is the challenge of writing "occasional" poetry--i.e. poetry to commemorate occasions in the life of the city. Both the research involved and the immersion in the subject have been a surprising pleasure for me.

There are, of course, some aspects of the job that I will happily leave behind. No pleasure is unadulterated. But, for the most part, I have been enriched by the position and feel myself fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time to participate in this effort.

Windows

We are just back from San Diego--where the sun seems to shine non-stop, the scenery is beautiful, and there is room--and time--to think and dream and play and laugh. This trip, all those things devoutly-to-be-wished were accentuated by the presence of our daughters and granddaughter, as well as assorted friends. It made me think that, perhaps, in our 'normal' life, we are far too encumbered by things.

At the house in SD, we have only the bare-bones essentials. There is no need to worry about what placemats to use when you only have two. Or waste a lot of time over meal-planning when your cookware is likewise limited. Knowing that our time there is finite, we can even manage to keep the pantry and refrigerator simple. Can we use it up in five days? If not, it won't make the leap into my shopping cart. Even our wardrobes are simplified--as is our packing. Jeans and shirts, a pair of sandals, a 'dress' outfit for the rare occasion that requires it...these are all in the permanent SD closet. Thus, packing pretty much consists of books for the trip and the odd piece of clothing we might need to suit the weather.

Of course, the relaxing nature of these trips is also due to the fact that many of the items on our 'to-do' lists are not do-able long-distance. And we have not encumbered ourselves yet with volunteer work, church affiliations, serious social obligations, or other necessary evils that gobble up our days, weeks and months here at home.

Don't get me wrong. I love my life here in Virginia. But the ease of California has much to recommend it as well. These trips remind me that there are many things I can do without, and many things I still enjoy outside the realm of my day-to-day peregrinations. These trips are a sort of window on my life: a place to stand outside, looking back in and figuring out what is truly necessary, and how much is merely habit and inertia.

Things

In the process of decluttering my house--a Sisyphean task, for sure--I keep encountering things that I've saved because of their stories: where I got them, who gave them to me, the places they remind me of...I know, I know: memories are in your head, and getting rid of the THINGS doesn't rob you of them. But. There's something to be said for being surrounded by your memories and souvenirs. I don't know about anyone else, but I tend to forget things. Sometimes it takes something concrete to cause that memory to bestir itself. A book, a picture, a piece of jewelry--they all are able to kick-start a trip back to wherever they came from. They are a sort of portal to the past, where people and places and experiences come alive again.

A History of Things

Who will know,

when I am gone,

that this hooked rug was the one inside the door

of your great-grandmother’s pantry,

or that this turquoise stone and silver

spiral ring

was the first present your father gave me

on our honeymoon, as we browsed through Santa Fe?

Will anyone see this rug we found in Seville,

or remember buying the rabbit painting in Detroit

when we were killing time before the Farley wedding,

or tell the story of the Dutch “painting” and Windsor rocker

we found in Rancho Santa Fe?

Who will name the faces in the album

and the scenery we captured,

or know how we bought this wooden bowl

at that shop in Lake Louise,

or that I won this red enamel cookware

in a contest on a TV show?

As I walk through

this house of small memories

that built the life I’ve loved,

I can read so many stories:

the places, people, trips, events,

and bits of everyday…

Perhaps I should mark them all

with tiny unobtrusive notes,

for who will remember as they pack my things?

Perhaps not even I.

Cooking 101

I am beginning to figure out that, after 40 years of doing it, I know very little about cooking. This is absolutely inexcusable, particularly considering my scientific background. For forty-odd years, I have been assembling and mixing ingredients and accepting that sometimes things work, and sometimes they don’t. You’d think I might have had just the least smidgen of curiosity about my failures—but…no. I just put those recipes behind me and tried something different. What happened to my spirit of experimentation, my scientific method, the old routine of isolating variables and pinning down the guilty parties in the experiment? I dunno. I guess that I fell prey to the generally-accepted-by-students ‘cookbook’ style of experimentation. I guess there’s a reason for that terminology.

Behind this epiphany is a confluence of two events: first, I watched Alton Brown’s program on the Food Network. The guy is a nutcase, but he has an engaging way of actively researching a recipe and figuring out what makes it tick. The episode I caught was his quest for the perfect cupcake, which took him from today’s obsession with designer cupcakes back through the history of cupcakes, and finally, to what makes the perfect cupcake. The historical and cultural trivia reeled me in, and his cupcake analysis taught me a number of lessons that I’m itching to put into practice the next time I’m called upon to produce cupcakes. Which may be never.

Second, I picked up a magazine: American Classics, put out by Cook’s Illustrated. Okay. I admit it. One of the things I NEVER make is fried chicken. I am incapable of producing decent fried chicken. And, while I know it’s not good for us, I would like occasionally to be able to serve it. Where better to find a foolproof (and I mean that literally) recipe than in a magazine purporting to deal with American Classics? I got more than I bargained for.

As I paged through the magazine, I found recipes for all sorts of items, but…in addition to the recipes, I found serious articles explaining the characteristics most prized in the dish and how to obtain them. This was serious research and experimentation, analysis of methods and ingredients and procedures. These food scientists were actually cooking, evaluating, discarding and re-working recipes until they got the desired results. After all these years, someone was doing the science!

Naturally, I was stunned by this approach. One would have thought that I’d have embraced it long ago—but the fact is that cooking is too labor-intensive and time-dependent for me to work at a recipe till I got it right. Far easier to try, fail, blame the recipe and find one that works better. Far easier to forsake experimentation (where one’s family might tire of the search for the perfect corn muffin) and move on. Which is what I have done for lo, these many years.

In any case, I read the background on key lime bars, and followed the trail of the intrepid food scientist who was tracking the perfect crust, the perfect filling, the perfect garnish. Along the way, I learned why she did what she did. I followed her procedure, and produced the best key lime bars I’ve ever tasted. Man, there is something TO this science thing!

Who knew that key lime juice and fresh Persian lime juice could be used interchangeably? That the bottled variety of either produced a trace of bitterness in the filling? Why do you use condensed milk in this stuff? Who knew that a little cream cheese helped the consistency of the filling—or that an egg yolk improved it, but a whole egg didn’t?

What makes this all even more interesting is that I now see why certain recipes have specific directions—and I can guiltily remember taking shortcuts and being disappointed with my results. Telling me authoritatively to do something encourages me to rebel; telling me WHY to do something in a particular way gives me the option to take the shortcut, but lets me know why it might not be the best idea.

I am now ready to plunk down my money for a subscription to Cook’s Illustrated, and cancel my ladies’ magazines. (Well, I might have to keep Southern Living and Sunset: they have test kitchens…) I am far more interested in their analyses—and recommendations!-- of ingredients and tools than I am in what Julia Roberts has to say about being a mom, or whether Brad Pitt changes diapers in the Brangelina household. This is science I can use.

I’m a tolerable cook now, but with the strength of science behind me, I might become an amazing cook. I might even learn how to produce that American classic—fried chicken.

...And another poem...

Hack

I have a cough…

or the cough has me:

a tickle, a prickle, a reflex:

undeniable, unavoidable,

muffled and smothered

for a moment

but exploding without warning

of its own accord.

in its own sweet time and place.

It clears the airways

of amorphous obstructions

in repeated blasts--

making way for welcome clarity

which never lasts for long.

It is a painful experience.

It can be faked—if all you want is attention—

(Ahem!)

but the best kind is productive

and comes from deep within,

irrepressible,

in the dark of night or the light of day,

deep and natural,

assertive

and meaningful.

It is a sleep thief--

at its worst early and late--

is loud and disruptive,

aching, exhausting,

and can be contagious.

(Writing is a cough.)

Lucky

I think it's time to buy a lottery ticket. I've had an extraordinary run of fortunate occurrences in the past week--perhaps to make up for the miserable coughing bug I have been harboring since the end of July, though I never expect things to be evened out quite that neatly. In all sorts of minor ways, good things have been happening. Recipes have been turning out well, plants have cooperated by blooming when they were supposed to, normally arduous appointments have turned out to be less so. Stoplights wink green when they see my car approaching, rain confines itself to when I am indoors, my cleaning lady returned from vacation a week earlier than I expected..and parking spaces amazingly appear when I need them. Funny.

I'm beginning to suspect, however, that it may not be luck that is following me, but--more likely--an attitude adjustment. Like the proverbial 'half-empty, half-full' argument, so much depends on our point of view. Who knows but that, as my ceaseless coughing dials back, I'm more optimistic and am seeing more of the good side of things? It also may be the eternal optimism of September, when everything revs up once more, and we are all convinced that this year will be different. It may be the relief from the oppressive heat and humidity of August, when nothing seems easy or worth pursuing. Whatever it is, though, I am glad of it.

Happy birthday

This week is my daughter's birthday. Once again, she is too far away for me to share a birthday lunch or dinner with her, or for me to bake her an angel food cake and buy her favorite ice cream and watch her face as she blows out candles and laughs with her friends and family. I am too far away to make this day as special for her as she made it for me and her dad 34 years ago. She is a grown woman with a daughter of her own--and this, in some ways, makes me think that she will understand how I feel on her birthday: as if I can't give her a present big enough or important enough to match what she has given me and her dad through the 34 years of her life.

What does a child give a parent? It's easy to enumerate the bad things: sleepless nights, the worry, the frustrations, the money drain, the uncertainties, the late nights, that first day at school when she boards the bus alone, and--it seems like the next day-- the anxiety over handing the car keys to that inexperienced driver, the late night phone calls, the missed curfews, the cuts and bruises and trips to the ER... But beyond helping me find my inner nag (and my frightening connections to my own parents) our daughters have brought us so much more.

They gave us responsibility. What mother does not remember a moment when she looked at that tiny bundle of sweetly sleeping baby and thought--or said--that nothing was ever going to harm that child as long as she was around? Who hasn't flung an arm across a car seat to protect a child in a sudden stop? Or turned themselves into a "no-no" machine when their toddler started exploring things like stairs and stoves and bathroom cupboards? We were responsible for their lives and safety. And they trusted us with the trust that only a child can have--and only a mother or dad could accept.

They gave us pride. Pride in things over which they had no control ("Oh, isn't she CUTE??") and things that we taught them and things they came up with, all on their own. Pride in the young women they turned out to be--intelligent, beautiful, talented, and--above all, kind and thoughtful and considerate and funny women who we're proud to call friends as well as daughters.

They gave us purpose. Not that we didn't have things to do and places to go and mountains of our own to climb..but they gave it all more meaning. We had to be someone they could look up to, for whatever reason. We had to be worthy of them. We wanted them to be proud of us, as we were proud of them.

Graduations, jobs, independence...all of these were gifts, too: affirmations that we didn't screw up too badly as parents. One of the greatest gifts we have received is our daughters' willingness to introduce us to their friends, and their acceptance of us as more than just parents. We've often said that our goal in raising our children was to raise adults whom we would like to hang out with, not because we HAD to, but because they were good to be around. We have succeeded in that.

So, Kay--and Sarah!--thank you. Thank you for the laughter and the learning, the adventures and the discoveries. Thank you for stories and the memories and the big moments and the small ones. Thank you for the drawings on the refrigerator and the cards and the phone calls, for the celebrations and the sad times, because all of them combine to make you what you are and always have been: the light of our lives and the best gifts any parents could have. Happy birthday to you--and for us.

And just in case you think writing was one of those things that fell by the wayside...

Afternoon Tea

I have spent too long

in a world of coffee mugs;

I am ready to return

to teacups:

delicate china teacups,

light as whispers,

fragile as our secret dreams;

cups filled with music,

the song of silver spoons.

Coffee mugs swagger

and speak in boastful tones

of deals made and checklists scored,

of long dark nights

of cigarettes and crumpled papers.

Give me instead

a vellum sheet of poetry,

a thimble of sherry,

a tiered plate of artful sandwiches

and

a perfect strawberry,

clothed in chocolate,

a cup of amber tea.

Learn to love the process...maybe.

And here it is: August! Somehow the summer has drifted away, along with all my good intentions. The poetry book is still unfinished, the third floor is still the same old mess, as is the storage facility, and my closets and dressers and cabinets. I think my problem is that I like the CONCEPT of organization, but not the process. If only organization depended only on having all the required tools!

And so, despite my instinctive aversion to (and general disregard for) To Do lists (I DO make them, but usually when I'm on the verge of melt-down and need to really see where I stand vis-a-vis deadlines) the time has come to draw a line in the sand (or dust, if we're talking about my house) and decide what really has to be accomplished.

Automate the watering system in the garden.

Plant the planters that flank the door.

Figure out a storage solution for the patio.

Finish the damned poetry book and send it off for publication.

Get rid of the tons of clothes, books, paper, junk that inhabits all the nooks and crannies of this house.

Streamline the kitchen.

Find chairs for the TV room.

Clear storage area of all the stuff we will never use. Or the girls will never claim.

Get rid of the upstairs PC and get the network printer attached to the network.

Take the classes on the Mac that I've been meaning to take since December.

There. That should keep me busy for the next millenium. :)

E-Mail

This poem on my screen

is defined by the flipping of electrons,

is coded into the speech of atoms:

a different music from that I seek, 

but beautiful, nonetheless.

There is an elegance in the dance of atoms,

but it requires an attentive ear

to hear equations singing;

an eye attuned to patterns

of unseen and barely-imagined

mysteries.

Surely it must be a kind of magic

(or even poetry)

that finds my signal

(the electrons of my message)

amidst the noise and chaos of this universe

and sends it straight to you.

Home again...and way behind the proverbial eight-ball.

It's been a busy summer. No sooner did I recover from Poetry Month in April than I was thrown (along with my sister and brother) into the maelstrom of getting things ready for my mom's move to a retirement community (which loosely translates to throwing out all sorts of treasured items that wouldn't fit in the new space.) Interspersed with that was a stint of babysitting with Audrey in Seattle while her mom got to do at least a little of what she had planned to do at the Sleep Conference. I returned home to the prospect of our Summer Associate dinner/wine tasting--only 30 people, but still requiring time and attention. Then the actual packing and moving process in Baltimore, culminating in...a two week trip to San Diego/Tucson for Audrey's first birthday and some long-overdue maintenance at the SD house. Coming back to Alexandria and picking up all the loose ends--in Baltimore and here--consumed most of last week.

We are home again, at last. And the pace is once again picking up. A poem for the Alexandria Birthday celebration. Church responsibilities. A firm summer party this week. A brunch in August for our Dine with Nine group. Contemporary American Theater Festival in Shepherdstown at the end of this month. A gig with the Del Ray Artisans Summer Camp on the 28th. And, of course, the weekly trek to Baltimore to see how things are going at what JC calls "the home."

My car needs an oil change and a serious wash. My garden is somewhat the worse for wear, given the lack of rain this month. I need to de-clutter the attic and make an attempt at clearing out part of our storage area. I'm bored with everything I cook right now. I need to touch base with all the friends who have been neglected while I dealt with everything else. I have started the process of self-publication of a book of my poems--but haven't worked through all the kinks. And I owe Audrey a photo-book of her 1st birthday.

In other words, I am returning to my quasi-normal, half-completed to-do lists; I have more to do than I'll find time to accomplish in what's left of the summer. I have seized upon watering the garden as one thing I CAN accomplish that actually shows results. It is, as they say, what it is. Or, in French..que sera, sera.

Audrey's birthday: June 30

Audrey: One Year Old

The smile snaps on like a halogen bulb,

blue eyes illuminating the darkened room;

a quiet coo, a delighted giggle,

an exuberant little bounce

precipitating a wiggle, a wriggle,

then a full-fledged launch at the edge of the bed.

 

She greets the morning full-tilt,

babbling, crowing,

hurling herself at the new day

and all it has to offer:

a grab, a taste, a pull, a push, a peek—

exploration in all directions…

She seizes the day in her tiny fists

and squeezes from it

all the juice, the meaning, the excitement.

 

Her face reflects it all:

this is the first day of the world. 

Seattle, June 2009

Click here to view these pictures larger

Seattle Babysitting

I just got back from a 4-day trip to Seattle, where I was babysitting my granddaughter while my daughter attended a conference. I am here to tell you, there was no 'sitting' involved. While I had only intermittent periods of responsibility, they were enough to remind me that there is a reason why one should have one's children when one is young.

During our sojourn, we managed to visit Pike Place Market a few times, rode the monorail to Seattle Center, the site of the 1962 World's Fair and the Space Needle. Audrey rode the carousel with Kay, and we took a few walks downtown. In addition, Audrey crawled/walked an estimated quarter mile across the floors and carpets of the Sheraton and the Convention Center. She opened and closed the bathroom door of our hotel room roughly 500 times, picked up a thousand pieces of non-edible trash from various floors, made approximately 100 beelines for 10 different electrical outlets, pushed a plastic chair about a mile across a food court (mostly in circles), and circumnavigated at least 5 tables about 5 times each. We remarked upon the flight of at least ten seagulls a day, pointed at and identified each other countless times, picked up what seemed like a box and a half of Cheerios from rugs and floors, and consumed large quantities of halved grapes, pretty much on the fly. Audrey crawls faster than the proverbial speeding bullet, and possesses (I am sure) other superpowers that we can only imagine. And envy.

Following her, feeding her, walking with her when she's cranky, chasing her, pushing her stroller, carrying her, and--above all--keeping her entertained is a full-time, 24/7 job. Fortunately, my stints were limited to a few hours here and there. I don't think I would have measured up very well against my daughter's high bar. I am in awe of the fact that she does this every day, and is still managing to write a dissertation and carry on a relatively normal life besides.

I guess we all did it once upon a time, but I don't remember the process of raising my girls as being this constant, all-encompassing undertaking. Maybe I just don't remember; maybe the fact that they were 14 months apart threw me into such a black hole of motherhood activity that I didn't notice that I was insanely busy all the time. Or just insane.

Kudos, Kay. I couldn't do it again.