SUNDAY RERUN: Dad Tells Me a Story

This is an entry from my diary, May 12, 2003. It includes a story Dad told me, one which I'd forgotten:

There are times I'm intensely aware that any journal is a series of choices--what to record, in how much detail, what to omit. You may even have to choose whose stories to tell. I'm deciding tonight, here in the time-share vacation condo I'm sharing with my parents, Mom's sister Charlotte, and Dad's brother's widow Jewel. Already a week has passed since the fund-raising dinner/theatre entertainment for the new production of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Mother's Day was yesterday, Bruce's hearing with his supervisor's superior was this morning, and I have spent a rare five hours alone with my dad as we drove from Portland, (actually he joined me in Hood River) to Leavenworth, followed by dinner here, a round of crafting stick-pins, and swapping reminisces until Mom and the aunties were too tired to stay up any longer. Dad went to bed shortly after dinner. The trip had worn him out.

Now here I am, sitting propped against the wall, sideways at the head of the Murphy bed. I'm trapped in pajamas, as the living room is my bedroom, and perspiration beads my forehead. Aunt Charlotte was worried some Peeping Tom could see through the vertical blinds. What would she think if I opened a window? I am ready to go out and sleep in the van. Anything to cool off. I am going to open a window.

I surprised myself by being ready to leave when Mom and Dad arrived this morning. The car was packed, I'd had time to eat, RC had checked the tires and transmission.

Mom rode with me as far as Aunt Charlotte's, in Hood River. We had a brief visit there with cousin Cindy, and a light lunch, and then loaded Charlotte's gear into Mom and Dad's little red Taurus and drove over to pick up Aunt Jewel. Dad was my passenger now. Said he didn't want to get stuck in a car with three gabbling women. He'd told me in Portland he'd switch with Mom. Sometimes I've felt as though Dad and I didn't have a lot in common. I think it's a male/female thing. Duane told me once he always fretted about what to get Mom for Christmas and birthdays, but Dad was easy. It's just the other way around, for me--with Mom, I have to take a l-o-o-o-n-g list of possibilities and pare it down; with Dad I walk around wondering what one earth he might like to get! But there's one thing Dad and I have always shared: Our love of music.

We sang together for long miles, reminding each other of songs we hadn't thought of in years, resurrecting lyrics in a patchwork fusion of mental filing systems. 

And Dad told me stories. 

He told me of the time he'd been out logging with his brother, (my Uncle Walt) and a couple of buddies. They'd set out from camp one morning, Dad and one of the guys. Uncle Walt was still in camp, and the fourth man was already out in the woods. Dad had a double-headed clearing axe over his shoulder, which they used the way I suppose one would use a machete, to clear brush around the trees they wanted to cut, or to clear a path through the forest. It was honed every morning until it had an edge you could have shaved with.

Well, it was cold and frosty, and Dad stepped up onto an icy log lying in the path, lost his balance, and tried to keep his feet by bringing the handle of the axe down, slicing his neck quite neatly at the base of the skull.

His buddy managed to get him back to camp, where Uncle Walt hustled them into their old car. Dad's friend had a thick, folded cloth over the gash, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it wasn't working. At the sound of the car's engine, the fourth man came out of the woods wanting to know why they were going back. Uncle Walt jerked a thumb at the back seat, where Dad and his friend were. 

That fourth man took one look at the two of them and said, "Stop the car!" to Uncle Walt, yanked the back door open and said, "Get out!" to the friend, who did, and scrambled into the front seat. Then the latecomer climbed in with Dad and pushed his thumb into the pressure point on the side of Dad's neck, stopping the flow of blood. Without his knowledge and action, Dad would have bled to death.

Now, back to 2011, with the latest photos from the yard:

SUNDAY RERUN: Brain Teasers

Brain Teaser: Balancing Four Nails by MadeContact

Time for a Sunday Favorite! If you want to join the party, click on the button in my left hand sidebar--it will take you to Chari's instructions on Happy to Design.

This is an entry from my old diary, dated April 17, 2003. Hope you enjoy the Brain Teasers!

These brain teasers were sent to me a few days ago by one of my readers. I say, "Thanks, Phil!" And I'm adding one to his, an old (1933) jigsaw that gave you the brain teaser on the back, and then you could put the puzzle together to read the solution on the picture, which they didn't put on the box. 

So, written teasers first, picture teaser next, and answers after that.

Brain teasers that will make you groan ...
1. A murderer is condemned to death. He has to choose between three rooms. The first is full of raging fires, the second is full of assassins with loaded guns, and the third is full of lions that haven't eaten in 3 years. Which room is safest for him?

2. A woman shoots her husband. Then she holds him under water for over
5 minutes. Finally, she hangs him. But 5 minutes later they both go out together and enjoy a wonderful dinner together. How can this be?

3. There are two plastic jugs filled with water. How could you put all of this water into a barrel, without using the jugs or any dividers, and still tell which water came from which jug?

4. What is black when you buy it, red when you use it, and gray when you throw it away?

5. Can you name three consecutive days without using the words Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday?

6. This is an unusual paragraph. I'm curious how quickly you can find out what is so unusual about it. It looks so plain you would think nothing was wrong with it. In fact, nothing is wrong with it! It is unusual though. Study it, and think about it, but you still may not find anything odd. But if you work at it a bit, you might find out.
 
Here is the back of the box, with the captions to pictures below:

1. Rich princess want to marry a poor peasant. Her father objects.
2. King decrees on following day he will offer poor man two slips. One reads "marriage", the other "death". Peasant must abide by his choice. 
3.  Poor peasant is secretly told the night before that both slips will read "death".  
4. Peasant goes before court, and after making his choice, marries the princess. HOW DOES HE DO IT?

Answers to the brainteasers:

1. The third. Lions that haven't eaten in three years are dead.
2. The woman was a photographer. She shot a picture of her husband, developed it, and hung it up to dry.
3. Freeze them first. Take them out of the jugs and put the ice in the barrel. You will be able to tell which water came from which jug.
4. The answer is Charcoal.
5. Sure you can: Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow!
6. The letter "e", which is the most common letter in the English language, does not appear once in the long paragraph...

Answer to the Jigsaw teaser:

Peasant swallows the slip he chooses. The King said one of them would read "marriage", and the "other" death, so the peasant must have chosen "marriage", as the one in his hand is "death".

 

Hope you enjoyed the Brain Teasers! Now I'm off to see what Chari's got for us today....

SUNDAY RERUN: Attila the Pillow Fighter

It's time for Sunday Favorites, hosted by Chari over at Happy to Design. It's a fun party, and you can get there by clicking on the Sunday Favorites button in my left sidebar. Come join us!

This is an entry from my personal blog, back in April of 2003. You know, one of the things I most enjoy about re-posting a favorite entry is that I get to reread it myself. I'd forgotten nearly all of this afternoon, and remembering it made me smile. Hope it does you, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Monday is dance class for Jen, after school. Joe and I sit in the waiting room, and usually he does homework while I read. Their mom stands at the wall, watching Jen dance.

This week there's no homework. The school is testing the kids to see if their learning is up to standards. Joe brought his Gameboy, and sat on the bench. I came in after helping Jen into her leotard and tights, and putting her hair up, and sat down next to Joe, with my pile of magazines, searching for yellow, yellow, yellow...

I sat next to him, not touching. The moment I was settled, he changed position, put his elbows on his thighs, and his right knee against my left thigh. Each time one or the other of us stood, he made sure his knee was against me when we were both seated again. It felt very much like there was some kind of emotional bond that physical gesture was echoing.

At home he finished his dinner before Jen, and stood behind my chair, asking, "Can I braid your hair?" "Sure," I said, and he went to work. Of course, just braiding it wasn't enough, and I soon had a pile of hair on top of my head.

"Oooh. The mean old school-teacher look!" he exclaimed, and we all laughed. I put on my mean old school-teacher voice, half screech, half speech.

"Sit in your seats and turn to page 37!" I cackled at them. "You will read without moving from your desks to page 700!" They were both already giggling.

"But, teacher, I have to go to the bathroom!" said Joe.

"Deal with it!" I shot back.

"But, I already peed my pants!"

"Well, then, you'll be dry by the time you finish!" He's a typical nine-year-old--that had to have been the funniest thing he'd heard all day, and he practically fell down he laughed so hard.

When their dad got home, we had to go through that whole routine again, and at the sight of Joe standing behind me, hands full of my hair, his eyebrows rose slightly, and he murmured to me, "There's a certain level of comfort being indicated here," and I nodded. It's a good feeling.

The kids went downstairs to play, and I took a moment to tell their Dad what else had happened at dance class. Joe and Jen's mom had asked me if I wanted a coffee. Joe offered, "My mom's secret is that she likes you. That means she trusts you."

I was taken aback, not so much because she liked me, but because I didn't quite know how to respond. Could I honestly say I liked her? The words wouldn't come, she has done and said so much that is harmful to her kids. I sat there, stammering, and finally managed to blurt, "Well, what a nice secret to have!"

She didn't seem to notice anything amiss, and as we left the studio and walked together down the sidewalk, we laughed and chatted about...movies, I think. But it was a friendly conversation, and I saw the likeable side of her.

On the way home, I told Joe, "My secret is: I like your mom, too."

I saw his grimace reflected in the rearview mirror. "Why!?" he asked.

Oh dear. What to say to that? I told both kids, "Sometimes people...we all do things that aren't good, but we can still like the person without liking everything they do." Joe was quiet, and I could tell he was thinking about that.

Craig thought I'd handled the situation well, and the kids were standing at the bottom of the stairs calling, "Anitra! When are you coming down? You said you'd come down and play!", so I told him I'd better get down there before they came and got me.

I tiptoed down. They were hiding behind a wall they'd made of an over-sized hassock, sofa cushions, and a big body pillow. I could see them in the mirror that hung on the wall and faced both the stairs and playroom. Joe's head popped up, he saw me in the mirror, and cried, "Jen! She's coming! Attack! Attack!"

Oh, man. We had the hugest pillow fight. They were the Chinese, their "wall" was the Great Wall, and I was the Huns. All of them. Joe told me once, "Lie down. You're dead...But there are thousands more Huns, and they all look like you, and they're all dressed like you, so you can get up...aaaaaggghhh!!!"

Toward the end it was almost more wrestling match than pillow fight, with the three of us grappling and screaming on the floor. Again, the physical contact with Joe seemed to disguise a longing to be touched, a show of affection even when he was flinging himself across my back and urging his sister to do the same.

We were a tangled heap of arms and legs when their dad came down. He stood with his hands on his hips and said, "Kids, your babysitter is the best sport in the world. I hope you know that."

I couldn't find words to tell him, although it should have been easy. I was having as much fun as they were. How could that possibly make me a good sport? 

SUNDAY RERUN: My First Piano

This morning I came across a list of my earliest memories, and decided I would write about the first one on the list. I suspect, since I was still a toddler at the time, that I've gotten some things wrong. Mama, you have my permission to correct me!

Photo on Etsy

We were traveling from California, where Daddy was stationed, to Oregon. Daddy had leave and we were going to visit all the family up there. I'd have been two and a half or so.

It was a car trip and took two or three days back then, on the roads of the day and in the cars of the time. I seem to remember Dad telling me we drove a dark forest green Hudson. Picture the big rounded cars of the late forties, early fifties. We stayed one night of the trip with friends of my folks. 

I remember just one thing: They had a piano. 

I'd never seen one, didn't know such a miraculous object could even exist, something that made singing when you touched it. It pulled me, entranced and wondering, until I stood with the keys just at the level of my eyes. I can still see them, striped from that angle, a strip of white layered atop the tan of pale wood, and then the recessed stripe of the piano black beneath that.

My older brother was on the piano bench, kneeling, plunking at the keys, and I raised a tentative finger and touched one, softly, making it sound.

And then I looked up, and my mother was there, closing the lid to keep us from making too much noise. My eyes widened. I can still remember the thoughts tearing through my mind while she did that, although I couldn't express them in speech. No! NO! You don't understand! I'll be gentle! I won't make noise! It's music! Ple-e-a-s-e.... 

She'd taken away the miracle, and then turned and walked into the other room. I could only stand there, staring at the door, mutely grief-stricken.

Now, in case you're thinking I was deeply scarred, and resented Mama for life, or something like that, don't! The strongest memory is simply the miracle of that instrument. Of course, being able to remember the experience has probably colored my ideas of what goes on in the minds of very young people. I suspect we routinely give children too little credit.

(By the way, the view of the piano above is still one from above my eye level at the time. Even standing on tiptoe, I couldn't have seen the keys from that height. Of course, my view of the edges of the keys wouldn't have made a very attractive photo!)

SUNDAY RERUN: Let It Be a LIVE Baby!

It's time for a Sunday Favorite, hosted by dear Chari, over at Happy to Design. (You can click on the button in the left sidebar to get the directions for joining the party, or go straight to today's meme there by clicking on the link at the end of my first sentence.)

This entry is from March 18, 2003. The baby born is now fifteen years old, and a lovely young woman. Lots of words, but an amazing story, I think.


I went to a baby shower at my eldest daughter's Saturday. As often happens at that sort of party, the women talked a bit about doctors, pregnancies, that sort of thing.

One of the doctors in town, who had been my youngest's OB/GYN, has been forced out of practice, apparently for incompetency. Talking about him, that daughter stated, "Well, I don't know, but I lost two babies with him, and he was great." Those miscarriages had been so emotionally painful for her it was both a shock and a relief to hear her talk so matter-of-factly about them.

I'm remembering how, I think during the first Revels show she was in, the cast was circled up on stage before the house was opened, all of us gathering and joining our energies in preparation for the performance. One of the cast members suggested, since Revels is all about the cycle of life and death, light and dark, that we share the names of those loved ones who'd died during the year, and honor them. It seemed like a loving thing to do, as several cast members had lost friends or parents that year. But suddenly I realized December had turned and practically run from the stage. I followed her to the women's dressing room and found her standing alone, sobbing.

"December. December, what is it, baby?" I asked.

"Mom, I lost two babies this year, and they didn't even have names! I can't even say I lost them, because they didn't even get to have names!"

I don't know what I said. Something. I just remember holding her in my arms, my spirit weeping with and for her, until she quieted, and was able to stop crying.

I'm glad she's healing.

Then I remembered this morning what it had been like, being with her in the delivery room when Caitlin was born.

They'd induced labor. I seem to remember that something wasn't quite right about the baby, but that wasn't something December shared with us until later. She was in labor thirty-six hours, and by the wee hours of the morning was so exhausted she was falling asleep between contractions that lasted two minutes or so and were spaced only about thirty seconds apart. She was sitting up on the bed, and a contraction would start and she'd get through it as best she could, and then as it ebbed her eyes would close and her head would droop and she'd be asleep, only to lift her head with a kind of shrugging roll as the next wave of pain spread its ugly mantle over her belly.

By the time she was ready to push, and the baby was coming, we were all exhausted. I have no pain during childbirth, and watching my youngest, my own baby, my joy, suffer so much was excruciating. And then the excitement, layered over that fatigue, when she was finally able to push and we could see the baby's head crowning. I think I must have hyperventilated. I was standing next to her bed, and I looked across at her husband, who's a paramedic, and I said, with more surprise than anything else, "I'm going to pass out!"

He looked at me and said, "Yes. You are." I didn't want to cause a disruption. I went slowly to my knees, still holding the railing of the bed with one hand, and as I knelt there, the room spinning in blackness, someone put her hand on my shoulder and said softly, "You don't want to miss this." Oh, she was right! I shook off the vertigo, and rose. Just a couple more pushes and the baby was out! She had a girl!

I realized in a great sweep of fear that the nurses weren't handing her to December. They'd whisked the baby over to a little table and were working over her. I heard them urging the infant, "Come on, baby. Breathe. Breathe!" I was horrified. December didn't know what was happening. I stood there, holding her hand, listening to the nurses, listening to my daughter. She said, "I have a daughter, mommy! I have a daughter!" I looked down at her and said calmly, "Yes. Yes you do," but all I could think was "Please let it be a live one. Please let it be a live one!"

The nurses were bagging the baby--they had a bag with a mouthpiece on it, and they were squeezing it, squeezing air into her lungs. "Breathe, baby!" My eldest daughter was videotaping.

On the video you hear the little cry as Caitlin finally, finally, finally gasped air into her tiny lungs on her own. You see the room spin, the floor is on the screen, the sides of hospital furniture, and you hear December's sister and mom sobbing with relief, but you don't see the baby. There was no control left for filming.

Later, I was talking to my eldest, Melody. I asked if it had been she who'd put her hand on my shoulder and spoken to me when I almost passed out.

"No, Mom. I was too busy with the video camera."

"Oh, then it must have been one of the nurses."

Melody gave me a puzzled look. "No, Mom. There wasn't anybody near you. You were the only one on that side of the bed, except for me."

I will believe until my dying day that an angel was in that delivery room, too, and that I felt the touch of its hand, and heard its gentle words.

SUNDAY RERUN: THE SQUIRREL

Time again for Sunday Favorites, hosted by Chari, over at Happy To Design! To join in the party, click on the link in my left sidebar, which will take you to the easy-peasy instructions, or just click the link in the first sentence, which will take you to the latest installment. I've chosen another poem, this time from a blog post back in 2002:

My family & me, when I was 10 or 12.
Yes. That's a skunk, our darling Taboo.

THE SQUIRREL
The winter I was twelve
A squirrel,
I think it was a squirrel,
Got into the engine compartment
Of my grandfather's car.
It must have felt like Heaven,
An oily, black, warm
Nirvana.
Bliss was short-lived.
My grandfather, all unawares,
My gentle grandpa,
Drove the car
Into town
And back.

It was the smell that informed us, finally,
Of tragedy.
The smell.
Four decades later I wonder:
Where was that tiny corpse
That grandpa could not extricate it?
We suffered for weeks,
Tearing full-tilt through snowscapes,
Windows down
Coats buttoned
Eyes streaming.

I do not care for dogs.
That winter I would happily have been one,
Head out the window,
Face forward,
Tongue flagging
Icy crisp
Clean
Fresh
Air.

SUNDAY RERUN: Tell Kids They CAN'T HELP!

It's time for a Sunday Favorite! You can join in on the fun, too. Chari, over at Happy To Design, is our hostess, and you can find her very simple rules by clicking on the button in my left sidebar. Got a favorite entry? Re-post it, and drop the link with Chari! I'm doing a bit of a montage here. The picture above is one my daughter Sarah did some years back, and I loved. I'd still like to see it as a t-shirt.... And then there's this entry, not a favorite for happy reasons, but because it's important. We need to protect our children, and this is an easy rule for them to follow with strangers.

From July of 2002, an entry detailing a conversation with my nanny charge, CJ: I was fixing little CJ's breakfast yesterday morning when he walked into the kitchen.

"Ani," he said, "Did you hear about that little girl who was only five years old and she was playing at her house with her friend and a man told them his puppy was crying and to come with him and help and maybe they could have it?"

"No, I didn't," I said, with a sinking feeling. "What happened?"

"One little girl was kinda smart and she stepped back a few steps," he said, "but the other little girl was kinda not so smart, and the man grabbed her, and he took her and he killed her. And now they found her body."

Jeez. Why? Why?! Why would someone do that? And why should a six-year-old ever have to know they did? But if he doesn't know, then he's in danger himself.

I was so saddened, it took me a minute to say much that was helpful, but I suddenly remembered a 60 Minutes segment on the subject.

"CJ," I asked, "What should you do if a grown-up you don't know asks you for help? Say, his dog is lost or sick? Or he can't find his daughter? What should you do?"

He thought. "Say 'no'," he said, and then, "Step back."

"No, CJ," I said. "RUN!! Run as fast as you can to your grown-up--to Mom, or Dad, or your teacher, or me. Run! Do you know why?"

"Yes. Actually,no." he said. (He and his sister are both so cute that way. They want so badly to be able to say they understand or know everything, but then they back off that yes answer. Every time.)

I answered my question for him. "Because grown-ups don't ask kids for help. Not kids they don't know. Never. When a grown-up needs help he asks another grown-up. They don't ask kids."

He was listening, paying close attention. "So, if a grown-up you don't know asks for help, what do you do?"

"Run," he said, "and go tell my mom or my teacher."

"How fast?" I said, and at his perplexed look, I answered the question for him again. "Very fast. Because grown-ups never ask kids for help. If they do, there's something wrong. Run and find your grown-up as fast as you can."

---

I repeated this to his older (almost 8) sister when I picked her up from her Reading Evaluation.

---

Please, people. If you have children, tell them this! Little kids want so badly to please, and they're trained to obey. They love to help, and learning when not to can save their lives. Let's not lose any more of our precious little ones. No more.

SUNDAY RERUN: BROKEN (a poem)

It's time for another Sunday Favorite! Click on the button in my left sidebar to see how you can join the fun--it will take you to Chari's blog and the instructions.

This is from the summer of 2002:


Broken

You used cleaning the kitchen
to show me how angry you were,
chattering the silverware,
clattering the plates,
and toppling the cups
into their positions on the upright prongs
of the dishwasher.

You used the dishes to show me.
It worked.
You broke my favorite glass
and
we both wept.

SUNDAY RERUN: Library Fine of $1642.25?!

It's time for a Sunday Favorite blog post! Click on the button over in my left sidebar to join the party over at Chari's, and post your own favorite!

A favorite photo of my cousin Angie

This is one of mine, from my other blog, posted on June 15, 2002.

Not long ago my Uncle Darrell was going through some stuff up at Grandma and Grandpa's old place, when what should he run across but a library book his niece, Angie, had checked out, oh, eighteen years ago, and never returned. It seemed like a perfect opportunity for a little fun.

Angie, at about the age she was when she checked out the infamous library book.

Darrell knew someone who worked at the school, and got her to give him some of the school's stationary. Then he wrote Angie a letter to the effect that the school had been going through old records and trying to put some of them to bed. Part of that organization effort was to get people with overdue books to ante up. Their records showed that she had checked out a book in 1984, and not returned it. The fine for that would be $1,642.25. Oh, and she'd need to buy the library a replacement, too, if she didn't still have the book.

In the meantime, Darrell enlisted the help of Angie's mom and sister. He gave them the book, and Angie's mom, my Aunt Charlotte, put it on her bookshelf. When Angie got the letter, she ran with it over to her mom's place (literally--they share a driveway) in a panic. Her sister, Cindy, was there.

Angie was panic-stricken all right, but she maintained that it had to be a mistake--she'd never even checked that book out! Cindy said, "I don't know, Ange. Seems like I saw that book just the other day..." and walked over to the bookcase, and "searched" through the titles. "Yeah! It's right here!"

Angie was totally freaked out. For exactly as long as it took Charlotte and Cindy to call Darrell so he could share in the laughter. At Angie's expense, of course. Thank goodness she's a good sport. Our entire family is still enjoying the joke.

SUNDAY RERUN: Santa Pinch-Hits for the Tooth Fairy

Here I am, with Mama and two of my brothers, Gary, and Walter (Skip).

Time again for a Sunday Favorite! Click on the button in my left sidebar to join the party over at Chari's!

This is from my "other" blog, a personal diary, and was first posted in June of 2002.

---

Okay, so it isn’t exactly a seasonal entry. This coming weekend is the get-together of all the women on my mom’s side of the family, and we’re all supposed to arrive with stories and anecdotes about our relatives, living or dead. Doing it here let’s me get it into my own journal, too, some 45 years late.

I was a woman of “a certain age”. You know the one I mean—old enough to lose her teeth, and young enough to be excited about it. Also too chicken to speed the process up in any way, which is why one of my front teeth hung by a mere thread for what was, apparently, too long for Grandma P to handle.

I was standing upstairs in my Aunt Charlotte’s old bedroom, talking to Grandma, when all of a sudden she stuck her hand in my mouth, grabbed the loose tooth, and yanked. I yelped.

“Well, it was just hangin’ there!” said Grandma.

I got over the shock pretty quick. After all, a gone tooth meant money from the Tooth Fairy. I went downstairs to the bathroom to rinse my mouth, setting the tooth on the edge of the sink. Guess I splashed too much, because an instant later it was gone. Down the drain. Lost. I was crushed.

I don’t remember anything else until the next morning, which just happened to be Christmas. Under the Christmas tree was a little cradle that I knew instantly Grandpa had made for me, and in the cradle was a doll, and on the doll’s cheek was a dime. That puzzled me, and I asked Grandpa about it.

“Well,” he said, “you know that tooth you lost last night?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it went down the drain, and through the pipe, right down to the crick out yonder,” and he gestured toward the woods beyond the pasture (strawberry patch back then) to where the creek was. “This little fish saw it come out, and he told a little bird, and the bird flew to the North Pole and told Santa Claus. And Santa got on the phone and called the Tooth Fairy, and she said, “Santa, since you’re going to be out there anyway, could you drop off a dime for me?”

And yes. Of course I believed him. It was Grandpa.

SUNDAY RERUN: Catsup Flowers

It's time for a Sunday Favorite, hosted by Chari! Do you have favorite blog posts, too?Just click on the badge in the left-hand sidebar to see the directions for joining this meme.

These are not mustard flowers, but I like them!

This favorite of mine is from May of 2002, titled Catsup Flowers:

Grace (the three-year-old I take care of on Tuesdays) and I were walking to the car, and passed a leggy plant with yellow flowers dotting the end of its stems.

"What kind of flower is that?" she asked.

"It's mustard," I answered. "And when the flowers make seeds, you can grind them up, and that's how you make mustard. They're very small seeds, though, and it takes a lot of them."

She thought it over for just a moment, then asked, "Do they make catsup from catsup flowers?"

SUNDAY RERUN: But...

It's time for another Sunday Favorite! If you want to join the party, just click on the Sunday Favorites badge in the left sidebar, and it will take you to Chari's blog and the instructions.

I seem to be on a poetry kick with these. This is a poem I wrote in August of 2001, posted on my personal diary site:

BUT...

It can surprise me sometimes.
The paint looks so good--
smooth, not checkered, not bubbled, not chipped.
But
the head of the screwdriver rips along
where siding and window trim meet,
and suddenly,
strips of color curl away
and other colors reveal themselves.
Sunshine yellow and stormy grey and robin's egg blue.
I wonder if each color suited the mood of the painter
when they were brushed on.

You surprised me, too.
Under all the endearments,
the "I love you"'s, the kisses,
just where your words and your eyes come together,
a strip of my heart peeled away and curled up on itself.
It was only a word, just one word to jolt and astonish:
But.

These boards I'm scraping were never primed,
never prepared.
I wasn't either,
but
I will be next time.

SUNDAY RERUN: The Taste of Figs

My Sunday ReRun for today is a poem I wrote and blogged on another site, back in 2002.

Do you have favorite blog posts? Join the party over at Chari's blog by clicking on the Sunday Favorites button in my left sidebar! It will take you to the easy-peasy instructions for participation.

The Taste of Figs

In the dead of winter he ate dried figs,
watching through windows where snowflakes settled,
and melted against transparent warmth.
He remembered the geese,
flying overhead, beckoning,
while he lingered,
Stayed.
Outside, the twilit air was suddenly
summer-scented.
An apple glowed, rose flame
under the frost.
And, alone,
I tasted figs.

SUNDAY RERUN: Apple Cake--YUMMM!

It's Sunday, and that means it's time for a Sunday Favorite! I've chosen this one from a year ago, because it's apple season, and those red orbs are calling my name.

Do you have favorite blog posts? Join Chari's Sunday Favorites party by clicking on the button in the left sidebar!

Ceili, my constant, perennially hopeful, cooking companion

My plan, today, was to make Mama's no-bake cookies. Out came my big loose-leaf notebook of recipes. Not there. The little book I'd used for a while some years back. Not there, either. The big recipe box. The little recipe box. Nope.

I called Mom. She went hunting, and started to read one to me, but before she was half finished, we realized it was similar, but not hers. So was a second one, filed nearby. Finally, she said she'd find it and call me back.

In the meantime, all that recipe browsing had reminded me of a bunch of other recipes that are begging to be made, but the one that topped the list was an apple cake recipe I got from a neighbor friend many years ago. I no longer even remember her name, but I thank her for the Best Apple Cake recipe ever.

Here's what you'll need:

• 4 cups unpeeled chopped apples (I promise you won't notice the peels!)
• 2 cups sugar
• 1 cup chopped nuts
  
• 2 beaten eggs
• 1/2 cup vegetable oil
• 2 teas vanilla
• 2 cups flour
  
• 2 teas baking soda
• 2 teas cinnamon
• 1 teas salt

In a large mixing bowl, mix all the dry ingredients together. Add the apples and nuts.


Mix together the liquid ingredients, and add to the dry. Stir gently until everything is well-mixed. The batter will be quite thick, but as they cook the apples will "juice up", adding the moisture needed.


Spoon the batter into a greased and floured baking pan. Mine was 7 x 11 inches, but you could also use a 9 x 13.

Bake for about 45 minutes at 350 degrees F, or until a knife inserted at the center comes out clean. (I actually had to cook this one for nearly an hour, because of the smaller pan, but it made for a thicker cake.)


I'd intended to drizzle caramel syrup over the plates before serving, but found we were out of it, so I served it as I had 100% of the time before--just as it came from the baking dish, no frosting or adornment at all. It really doesn't need it.

DH had a one-word description, with his mouth still full of his first bite: "Gooood!"

SUNDAY RERUN: Portland Pirates, 2009

Time to repost a favorite! (Everyone has favorite blog posts; Click on the button in the lefthand sidebar to join Chari's Sunday Favorites blog party!)

This week I'm posting a slide show of pictures from last year's Portland Pirate Festival. It's what I'm doing this weekend, only we have wet, Wet, WET weather to contend with.

This is the first of two slideshows. In the next one, I'll put face painting shots, and maybe a few other just-looking-at-all-the-fun pictures; this one shows the costumes, the action, the fun, the relaxation of all those adult inhibitions about doing things "they" might think are silly. It's one of the reasons I love the festival: Nobody worries about anything but the moment, and even the growed-ups play!

Gotta run now--it's time to get into pirate wench mode, and go paint, hopefully, a whole lot of little pirate faces and arms!

SUNDAY RERUN: Precious Memories

Time for another Sunday Favorites/Sunday Re-Runs entry. Want to join the fun (because it really is great to do the look-back thing)? Click on the Sunday Re-Run button in the left sidebar, which will take you to Chari's blog and the instructions.

The sleeping angel you see below is now eleven.

This is my daredevil granddaughter!

She doesn't look like this all the time--she is one wild little thing, with no fear whatsoever. She's been climbing and sliding down the 12 foot steel slide at the park, on her own, since she was just barely two. Climb. Whoosh! Thump! flat on her little bottom, over and over and over...

This is about Mom, and is a sort of vignette.

When we lived in Hawaii, Dad sold sterling silver, moonlighting to supplement his Navy pay. Sometimes his sales demonstrations took place at our home on Nigh Circle.

(How do you "demonstrate" silverware? Each pattern has a story. Then you stand on a teacup. Uhmm. Ask Dad.)

It was obvious to Mom and Dad that you couldn't do something like that in front of five kids, so Mom would take us outside.

In one of my most cherished memories, I can see the six of us on a blanket spread on the lawn at the end of the house. I lay there, alternately watching Mom and stargazing, while she read to us. The story was Thumbelina. And then she sang...

Thumbelina, Thumbelina
Tiny little thing,
Thumbelina dance,
Thumbelina sing.
Thumbelina what's the difference
If you're big or small?
When your heart is full of love,
You're nine feet tall.

---

Other memories, brief, but clear:

Grandma Parker to me: “Anitra, stop leading with your belly.”

Aunt Charlotte carrying me through the shadowy, scary woods to visit somebody. (You didn’t know it was scary? You weren’t three years old!) I felt safe because I was with her.

Grandpa Parker, after everyone had oohed and aahed over how beautiful newly-born Melody was: He sidled up to the sofa where she was lying, looked kind of over his shoulder at her, and wryly said, “Ugly little thing, idn’t it?”

Aunt Micki trying to pronounce “foot”. That French accent never let her get any closer than something that sounded like it rhymed with “toot”.

Daddy taking me to work with him when I was about six. He sat me at a drawing table and gave me paper, colored pencils, and some dark blue (is there any other colour?) carbon paper. When I saw that my beautiful, colorful artwork was duplicated all in navy, I was soured on carbon paper for the rest of my childhood.

I made a quilt for Grandma and Grandpa’s 50th wedding anniversary. After that, anytime we stayed the night she would spread the quilt on the bed and admonish us, “Now, y’all be careful with that quilt. My grand-daughter made it for me and I don’t want anything to happen to it!” Every time. No exceptions.

SUNDAY RERUN: Manners School

It's time for a Sunday Favorites entry, hosted by dear Chari. Click on the button in the lefthand sidebar to go see her and the favorites of other bloggers, and to join us!

Here's an entry I posted, oh, nine years ago. How can the time go by so quickly?

Parker, at about 9

My granddaughter Parker is six and a half. She told her mom this past week that she wanted to go to "Manners School".

Sarah said, "But Parker, you're so polite! You always say 'please' and 'thank you'. Why do you think you need Manners School?"

"Because," said Parker, "it sounds funny when I say, 'Excuse me, Madam'".

So, let's see. Solution to the problem would be....I'm still laughing!

SUNDAY RERUN: Moving Day

It's time for a Sunday Favorite, a repost of a blog post from the past. (The Blog Party is hosted by Chari, over at Happy to Design. Click the Sunday Favorites logo in the lefthand sidebar to join!) I've chosen one from about eight years ago, called Moving Day.

"The Baby" at Seven

We helped Lauree and Toby move last Thursday. Their new home is beautiful. I am so thrilled for Lauree. She really is the kind of woman who loves being a home-maker, and stay-at-home mommy. I spent most of the day over there holding Abby, who was put off by the strange surroundings. I felt kind of useless, but Laurie said not, that it was a great relief to her that I could hold the baby and let her get things done and direct the moving in. RC's mood in the forepart of the day was abysmal. So, of course, I wrote a poem!

Moving Day

How can there be so much in the world to yell about?
He shouts his way through the hours.
I mutter.
I mutter, because if he hears me
there'll be one more thing to roar about.

But then it's finished.
The boxes are stacked in the garage,
the furniture is helter-skelter in the rooms,
and we lounge, chatting,
my head on his chest,
staring at the U-Haul parked at the curb,
and suddenly I realize:
This day was perfect.

---

And while we're doing poems. This happened a couple of days later. True story!

Renovator

Standing with one foot on the top of the ladder,
the other swinging free in the air,
my arms stretched over my head,
I squint as tiny, grey Chiclets of old paint
rain from my putty knife's edge
to my face.

I have spent so much time in the sun this year
that I am as dappled as the earth under a shade tree,
tawny shoulders sprinkled with russet spots.
My legs are sheathed in short denim
and a long summer's tan.

Yesterday, a man in a shiny white pick-up
swung into the driveway and proposed marriage.
You weren't here,
but I told you about it later and we laughed together.

Today, back on the ladder,
precarious,
I have leaned around the corner just in time
to see you walk chicken-style
the length of the scaffolding.

Is it any wonder I smile as I work?

SUNDAY RERUN: Achilles, Cole, DeLila, Tsarina Coffee Pot People

It's Sunday! Time for a Sunday ReRun, a blog party hosted by Chari, over at Happy To Design. Anyone can play, so if you have a favorite blog post or three, click on the Sunday Favorites button in my lefthand sidebar and come join the fun!

This is from August of 2004:

I took pictures of most of the new Coffee Pot People® today. Here are four of them, and I'll put up more tomorrow. I'm hoping to have at least a couple more finished tomorrow, too. The show at Edgefield is next week, and I want to have as many as possible put together. They are so much fun to do, it's hard to believe not everyone does something like this. You know, not exactly this, per se, but something like it, something that lets them laugh at the places the imagination can take you, and feel the satisfaction of seeing it take form. Guess it's one of those "different strokes" things.

First up is Achilles. He used to be a terra cotta cupid that my stepdaughter gave me, but then a tenant's friend pruned our rhody for us, the cupid was sitting at its base, it's head and foot got knocked off, and....my DH was appalled when I showed him what I intended to do with the dear departed's remains, and was afraid Lauree would be upset, but Lauree absolutely cracked up when she saw him. By the way, "Achilles" means "lipless"! I thought that was just a riot, since this little guy is definitely Greek. At least, I think he is.

(Update: I realized later that Achilles Mom had intended to name him Raphael, after the Greek fisherman with whom she'd had a brief, torrid, and entirely imaginary affair, but switched to "Achilles" when she saw her regrettably thin-lipped newborn. Oh, and the DH considers Achilles one of his very most favorite Coffee Pot People!)

Achilles

Next up is Cole, jazz musician, looking cool above the tub of coals he holds. He does still work as a barbecue, and especially likes ribs, since I failed to give him any myself! (Update: Cole later married Isabella M. Goode in a televised ceremony at the Portland Convention Center.)

Cole Webber

Now DeLila is something special. Some folks party, and we all know the sort who would put a lampshade on his/her head and get silly to get attention. Who but DeLila would have thought of wearing one for a skirt, though? This girl really knows how to party, and gets lit pretty much every night. Really. There are candles in the base, and a tea light behind her hat. She's even better at night than she is by day. Come to think of it, I know people like that, too.


DeLila, party girl extraordinaire

Last, for today, is The Tsarina. A crown on her head, and stars in her hair


The Tsarina

SUNDAY RERUN: The Very Angry Bell Pepper

I was thinking about this certain vegetable the other day, and it occurred to me it would be a great blog entry for a Sunday Favorites post. (Chari is hosting these; click on the button to the left that says Sunday Favorites if you'd like to join the party!)

Here it is, from September, 2008:

I had a lunch date with a salad yesterday, starring Mr Bell Pepper. Boy. Don't know what set him off, but when I took off the paper towel I'd wrapped him in after making Saturday's salad, this is what I saw. (I'm not kidding. He just about took my head off!)

I went ahead and sliced off some for my salad, thinking that would change the pepper's outrageous expression, but I was mistaken.




Haven't had a salad today. I'm kinda reluctant to see what's inside that paper towel now.