Inked Pillows

I have a great big giant bed, and only two of us sleep in it.  More people are in it at other times - two big boys were sprawled across it last night, looking at pictures of a recent camping trip; and two littler boys with cold feet were snuggled in it with me much-too-early this morning.  I have great big pillows that fit on the bed, but I prefer to use the regular sized pillows.  Partly because they are Goldilocks-just-right, and mostly because of the nice pillowcases I have for them.

My grandmother made these pillowcases for my mother's trousseau.  I don't do fine handwork like this, so I can only imagine how many hours she spent embroidering and crocheting the edging.  The pillowcases went from her loving hands to my mother's cedar chest - where they stayed for decades.  My mother never used them.  I don't know whether they seemed to fancy to actually sleep on, or whether it was residual bad feelings from her short first marriage, or whether she just forgot about them.  But I love them.  They are old-fashioned and 100% cotton and they make me happy.

Recently, as I was making the bed in the morning, I noticed some extra decorations on one of the pillows.  Ball point pen marks!  Thankfully, they are on one of the plain great big pillows and not on grandmother's pretty pillows, but still!

Can you see it?  I went around for quite a while, grumbling at my small children for scribbling where they definitely should not have been!  Later, as I was pulling my hair up into a bun, I remembered that I had stuck a pen in my hair the day before... and I had done the pillowcase decorating while I was reading in bed, my head (and bun and pen) resting against the pillows.  Aargh.  I think my Grandma Amy is laughing at me for my lovely pillowcase skills.

Announcing an Addition!

Alec has been busy since he got home.  He had to renew his driver's license, get a job, find an apartment, figure out what he was going to do for college, find some transportation...  Whew.  Adulting is a lot of hard work!  High on his list of priorities was getting back to this pretty gal he hadn't seen for two years.  It's a long time to be apart.

Unwilling to be apart any longer, they didn't waste any time to become engaged and start planning a wedding.  

Yeah, ring-buying is another one of those adulty things than takes some good decision-making skills and grown-up amounts of money.  I'll just be a wee bit flattered that he wanted a small amount of assistance from Mom.

I read something somewhere that said the purpose of a parent, when dealing with children, was to introduce the children to new things and help them figure out how to deal with those new things.  Short of having his own children, I don't think there is really anything new of significance to introduce to this boy.  So good luck on your adulting!  Have a happy marriage!  Be a responsible human being!  I'm pretty excited for them to learn all kinds of new things - now together.

It's fun to watch your kids grow up (especially when you get to continue calling them "my baby" in secret.  Shh!).

P.S.  I'm not dealing very well with the idea of becoming a mother-in-law.  I have two of the sweetest, kind-hearted women for my mothers-in-law, so that helps.  But it just sounds sinister, doesn't it?  It seems only a small step down from "wicked step-mother."  I hope I can be a reasonably good mother-in-law.  I do like my future daugher-in-law - I think she's just what my boy needs!

And I miss my mom, who could help introduce me to this new thing and help me figure out how to deal with it well.  We never outgrow our mothers.

Supper on a Bread Slice

My mom wan't a great cook.  Mind you, she wasn't a bad cook by any means, and we were always fed.  Mom just wasn't fond of the traditional homemaking tasks.  Her dinner mainstays were simple and came out of boxes or cans.  One easy dinner I remember was called Supper on a Bread Slice.   It's not a very imaginative name, but I've never been able to come up with something better.

It's easy, and the kids love it.  Well, my brothers did as kids.  I didn't care much for it  - maybe because the sauce made the bread soggy?  But when Jay and I were newlyweds, visiting back home and Mom made this, he loved it too.  So I had to make Supper on a Bread Slice in my home, too.  And my kids love it.  It's basically hamburger pizza on French bread, but we have done it a number of ways.

Slice a loaf of bread in half lengthwise.  Place halves, cut side up, on a baking sheet.  Spread tomato sauce on both halves.  Cover with cooked, crumbled hamburger and grated cheddar cheese.  Bake at about 350 until heated through and cheese is melted and bubbly.  Do we cover it before baking?  I don't remember, so maybe.

I cook onions in with the hamburger to give it a bit more flavor.  Other variation are using spaghetti sauce, pizza sauce, or barbecue sauce.  Sprinkle green onions, chopped fresh parsley, diced tomatoes, sliced olives, or chopped green peppers over the hamburger for a different feel.  Mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses are both delicious, and I'll bet I could even sneak leftover cooked vegetables under the cheese and no one would complain.  We make 3 French loaves worth, and every crumb is gone.  Gone!

It's a real family-pleaser of a meal, except for the mother.  I don't even have to worry about it anymore though, since white bread, hamburger, and cheese are now on my don't-work-well-with-my-body list.  I'll have something else thankyouverymuch.  So nobody complains.  Win.  

Grandma Lucy

My maternal grandmother, my mother's mother, passed away when I was 5.  I don't remember much about her except a sweet powdery smell and the way she bounced me on her knee and sang,

Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross

To see a fine lady upon a white horse.

With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

She will have music wherever she goes!

Then she would make me sway on her knee as she exclaimed, "Whoa, horse!"  I've jogged my own children on my knee countless times, reciting this same little song.  I love that I have a piece of my grandma that I can pass on to them.

A few months after Grandma died, Grandpa found a new sweet lady and married her - much to the surprise of his children!  She became my Grandma Lucy and we loved her.  She taught elementary school, and I thought she had a treasure trove in her downstairs closet because she had so many books!  They lived just up the street from us and I loved to spend hot sticky afternoons in the cool of her basement, lost in the dusty pages of her wonderful books.  She was always so good to us, and we never thought of her as a step-grandma; just Grandma Lucy.

Grandpa passed away 10 years ago, just the month before Jay did.  In the past few years, Grandma Lucy has gotten more and more frail.  A few weeks ago, she too crossed the bar.  We miss her happy smile, but we are happy for her.

The family has been cleaning out her house, and I found this stack of old school lunch trays there.  They were so cheerful, their pastel shades sweetly thinking back to a simpler time.  Just looking at them made me happy, and reminded me of Grandma Lucy.  Thanks for loving me, Grandma.  I hope I can encourage little children around me half as well as you did!

Slowing Way Down

So the other day (which means a vague sometime in the past but not necessarily recently.  We're liberal with our definitions here) I wrote about getting an inspiration in the temple that I needed to slow m life down.  I tried!  I thought seriously about it and everything.

But the reality of life for me is that I am the Mama of a large family.  Six kids at home rely on me for food, clothing, love, and attention.  I am the homemaker in charge of a house and land.  It's not huge, but there are always things that need cleaning up, fixing up, taking out, and tuning up.  I am the primary caregiver to a wonderful man and his Parkinson's Disease and he's not improving.  This disease is slowly stealing him and his abilities away from us.  And not lastly (but bestly!) I am the wife of a good man.  I'm so lucky to be the one to love him.

None of this will let up.  In  spite of the fact that we cleaned the front room yesterday, it needs to be cleaned again.  The laundry does not stay folded and put away.  Kids need to go to school again.  Track practice got out late and the boys need a ride home.  He needs a new pair of shoes.  She needs her hair brushed.  They need dinner (seriously guys?  We just ate yesterday!  Can't we call that good?).

And in the middle of all this thinking about slowing down and realizing that life was just not going to make this easy for me, I got a phone call from the doctor's office.  "So sorry, sweetie (she always calls me that and I love her for it).  The blood test results came back and you have Epstein Barr.  You need to get your back on the couch and stay there until this flare settles down."  Wait, what?  What is it, exactly?  Didn't I have mono already when I was twelve?  It comes back?  How bad is that?  How long will it take?  "Probably a month until you start feeling a bit better, but the fatigue can hang on for a while."

The fatigue.  Oh, I remember that part.  I was too sick to go to sixth grade for weeks.  My mom would take me to the doctor's office for more tests and I'd still be panting when we got there from the exertion of walking out my front door to the car.  Sometimes I had to crawl down the hallway to the bathroom because I was too exhausted to walk.  I lived on the old hide-a-bed couch in the living room where Mom could keep an eye on me.  Then they got new blue couches and they moved me and my old brown plaid one under the peninsula counter in the kitchen.  I was always so tired and never even wanted to move.

And I get to do that again?  Oh goody.

So now I live on the couch again.  Sometimes in the front room, and sometimes on the squishy green couches in the back room.  And sometimes I hide in my bedroom while Trent makes dinner and David hosts his own birthday party with his friends.  Lots of times I get up and do things, which I thnk is ok - in tiny amounts.  Because if I do any more than a microscopic amount, I pay for it afterwards.

It's hard to slow down.  I appreciate my family more than ever.  Trent is a dear to take care of half of everything I can't do.  David and Eddie have each made dinner this week (er, helped, but they are getting better).  Angel unloads the dishwasher.  The twins cleaned the bathroom, and it is actually cleaner now than when they started!  Even Chris was kind and was willing to help out (when he's not at school or work or track - which is not very much).  I'm blessed with wonderful people around me.

So we'll see what lessons I get to learn from this adventure!  Patience, I'm sure.  And gratitude.  And being able to see the things in slo-mo that I miss on fast-forward.  Stay tuned... I'm not going anywhere!

And thanks, Lord, for giving me a heads-up there at the organ.  I appreciate that.

Spring Weeding

I spent some time out in the sunshine today, weeding and thinking about our current political climate.  The two went really well together., actually.  Whenever I thought about a politician, I ripped out a weed.  Very cathartic and energizing, somehow at the same time.

There is a small strawberry patch along the back of the house.  I don't think I've ever seen it really flourish.  My mother did not like to weed, and I don't think she liked anyone else to weed, either, so she just wanted to put the whole yard in grass and forget about it.  I remember her making us weed lots when we were kids - I guess it wasn't worth the effort for her!

My brother and his sweet wife tried to tame the yard when they lived here, but it's a really hard spot to grow anything well.  Most of the strip is only about six inches wide, right against the south side of the house, so everything there just bakes.  Except the grass, the dandelions, and the bindweed. 

Right now the soil is soft and smells nice, so the weeds come out easily.  Or somewhat easier.  If I fill up a bucket with weeds every day, I should make it to the end of the patch soon, right?  I'm halfway there, so I'll get done about the time the weeds start to grow at the beginning of the row again.  (sigh)

The honest truth is that we can never give up on making life better.  And that's not a bad thing.  I am glad for the excuse to sit in the sunshine today.

Where Do You Put Your Feet?

I play the organ every week at church.  I'm proficient, but not splendiferous at it.  My mother, who had a 40-year tenure as the ward organist, taught me that the two most important parts of accompanying hymns were to begin the song together, and end when they end.  So I do, and anyting more than that is icing.

Now that's not to say that I am a terrible organist who is limping along.  On the contrary, I have played for many years myself and am quite comfortable with most of the hymns in the book.  Most, but not all.  So I practice.

I know what the hymns are at the beginning of the week, more or less.  The idea is that I practice them a bit every day and then I'm ready when Sunday rolls around.  Reality lives in a different world from my ideas, unfortunately.  I think about my songs at the beginning of the week, and then forget in the busyness of daily life.  About Thursday I start feeling panicky and by Friday I actually haul out the hymnbook.  I practice a lot on Friday, intend to practice more on Saturday, and brush the hymns up on Sunday morning.  And some weeks I actually do better than that!

I was practicing the other day when David came into the room.  He watched me play the songs for a few minutes, and then asked how I could practice the pedals when I was playing on a piano, not an organ.  I showed him where I put my feet as I practice, and how I pretend that the pedals are there.

I've been thinking a lot about that ever since.  How can I practice when I'm not really practicing?

First of all, I know the organ.  We had an organ at home when I was a child, and I really learned to play as a teenager.  I know that the D below middle C is directly in front of me as I sit at the organ.  I know that the F is just to the right of my right foot as I sit naturally, and that I have to stretch to the left about a foot to reach low G.

My feet feel the pedals as I play.  Officially, an organist wears special shoes while playing the organ, with a specific low heel and soft leather soles so as to feel the pedals beneath your feet.  Organ shoes are pricey, and I could never justify the expense, so I haven't ever bought any.  I remember my mother buying tap shoes and unscrewing the noisy taps for her organ shoes, but I just play barefoot. The pedals are arranged in white and clusters of black keys, just like the keyboard, and  I can feel where the pedals are, and where the black (or darker) pedals are in relation to the white pedals (which are usually light wood toned).  Low B is on the left side of the break between the the sets of black pedals, and F is on the right side of the next break.

Mostly, however, I practice the crud out of my hands before adding the pedals.  Mistakes are crud, right?  I want to practice the hand parts well enough that I don't even need to think about where they are going.  I need the brain space to pay attention to what my feet should be doing.

As I have been thinking about playing pedals, some other things have also come to mind.  I have some potentially stressful situations coming up that I've been worrying about. How can I prepare for those?  The same way.

I need to know me.  I've lived in me a long time, and I know where my boundaries are.  I know what comes easily, and what kinds of things I have to stretch the accomplish.  I need to respect myself and my strengths and not be afraid to shine.

There is strength in being sensitive.  I am able to feel out a situation, listening as I go, to play the right parts and correct it when it gets disharmonious.  I need to trust my gut feel.

Mostly, I need to make sure that the other parts of my life are in harmony.  Do the things well that I know how to do well.  Keep a schedule.  Get enough sleep.  Eat nourishing food.  Read my scriptures and do the things that fill my heart with happiness and goodness.  Then I will have the space to think and respond to new things as they come up.

Thanks, David, for asking the questions that helped me to answer my own wonderings. Love this family and the things I can learn from them!

And maybe I should even go to the church occasionally and really practice on an organ.  For real.

Happy Valentine's Day

We were cleaning out some storage areas, where my mom had kept all her holiday decorations.  I'm not sure what happened to the valentine wreath, but we found Christmas wreaths in this box.  Most importantly, we found this love note on the box.

My parents were married nearly 45 years before she passed away.  As I'm helping my dad with his history, he glosses over tough areas (whether intentionally or he really can't remember, I don't know) and highlights his love for my mother.  I know there were hard times - some I witnessed, and some my mom told me about later.  I remember going to my bedroom at night after there had been some negative feelings and pressing my ear to their door in an attempt to see if their murmured voices were having an argument.  I couldn't ever tell.  They never fought in front of us.  

No relationship is without its ups and downs, but I'm glad they stuck it out together.  Still in love is an inspiration.  

Happy Valentine's Day, you sweethearts.

Look for the Good

I love my family.  I am appreciative that we have a roof over our heads and sturdy walls to keep out the cold.  I have so many blessings!  That said, our living arrangements have been challenging.  Living with my dad has been two or three castes below renting, and I'm so fiercely independent that it is pathetically hard for me to have such boundaries.  I get it - this is my dad's house, and I can't make changes and improvements to it.  And he still lives here, so there is a lot of even the decor that I don't feel like I can change.  It made him crazy that I moved the silverware to a different drawer.

So I can keep sniveling about the things I can't change, or I can look somewhere else.  I get a kick out of the design blogs that show us a gorgeous homescape, and then turn around and photograph the other side of the room - where they have kicked the old papers and the dirty socks and last night's dessert dishes and the two blankets that don't match.  Thanks for keeping it real.

We can do that in real life, too.  I get to choose where I want to look.  I can look at the shelves overflowing with my mother's movie collection, or I can look at the somewhat-calmer fireplace.  "Organize yourselves" was our theme for January, so I thought I ought to tidy up the space around it.  Looking here makes me happy.  I just have to be careful to look down every now and then because this room also houses our spreading Lego collection.  Don't step on Legos.

I got myself a bag of cinnamon pine cones this year, after admiring them at the stores - but not buying them - every dang year.  I love cinnamon, and they still smell lovely.  This is what I want to be smelling, not burnt toast or eau de teenaged garcon.  Look for the good.

The best part of having a family is that I get to be Mama.  Love these kids!  Even when they rip my heart out and have growing pains and act unlovable.  Maybe I love them even more then, because I have to search and find the wonderful parts of them.  It takes practice.  But the more I work on loving someone who is difficult to love, the better I get at it.  My angel mother and my sweet husband have taught me this.

My mom loved me when I was prickly and not very loving.  I still want to curl up in her arms and have her just hold me.  And my man loves me now when I am having a less than lovely day.  Thanks for holding me together, Trent.

Thanks, Mom, for loving me, and for showing me how to be a mom.  Hope you don't mind that I moved the silverware.  If you do mind, just look somewhere else, ok?

Mother Promptings

My mother told me a story about her mother.  The family was in the living room, doing whatever the normal things were to do.  Grandma Amy was doing sitting in her chair, probably busy with some handiwork.  She embroidered and crocheted beautifully.  The three girls were there in the room, but I think the older three boys were gone.  The oldest son was in Vietnam, where he flew helicopters on rescue missions.  

Without warning, Grandma Amy jumped out of her chair, spilling everything to the floor, and ran upstairs.  My mother said she remembered looking around and seeing the surprise on her sisters' faces.  Grandma Amy just did not jump and run like that.

After quite some time, she returned to the room, her face pale and grim.  She explained that she didn't know why, but she felt compelled to pray for her boy in Vietnam.  She knew he was in some kind of bad trouble and needed to plead with the Lord to help him.

Later, she found out that he was indeed in peril at that exact moment, but had a narrow escape.  I wish I knew more details of the story, but I love the idea that Grandma Amy could importune the heavens for blessings on her children.  

While I was playing the organ at the temple today, I had a vivid flashback of a time with my oldest son.  I had gone out to Virginia to see him graduate from some of his military training.  It was our last day there, and his commanding officer had given him three hours of leave.  When it was time for him to go, however, the acting sergeant reduced it to only one hour.  Alec was furious, and disappointed.  His anger and frustration and discouragement boiled over into tears - tears he didn't want anyone to see, of course.  My mother heart broke for him, but there was nothing we could do. 

We spent the hour together and I savored the moments.  I watched him walk back to his barracks, smart and trim in his dress blues.  More tears fell, but this time they were mine and I didn't care who saw them.  I was so proud of him, and so glad that he wanted to spend time with me.

I don't know that Alec shed more tears today, or that there was something frustrating or angry or discouraging in his life at that moment.  But I still prayed for him, and I hoped he would be strong and happy.

I never knew what a mother heart would feel like.  I never understood how strongly a mother could love her children, and how physically that angst and yearning and care could express itself.

Now I get it.  And I am grateful for the legacy of strong mothers who taught me love.  What a blessing I get to be a part of!

Organs

The pipe kind of organs, not the slimy guts kind of organ.  I know it's getting close to Halloween and all, but I'm not ready for that yet.

My mother played the organ.  Beautifully.  I think it was like breathing to her.  She and a friend used to do a little touring to different church congregations on Sundays and play piano and organ duets.  In high school!  

She was the organist in Sunday meetings for as long as I can remember.  In fact, for a while Dad was the clerk and Mom was the organist.  The organist sits at the organ on one site of the stand at the front of the chapel, while the clerk's desk is on the opposite side of the stand.  We took turns getting to sit beside Dad while he counted attendance in the meeting and took notes in his fine neat handwriting totally befitting a printer.  But for those of us not sitting by Dad... we sat in the back row of choir seats halfway between the clerk's desk and the organ.  I can only imagine that we wiggly kids were very entertaining to the congregation.  I'll try not to think about that.

Our organ was something like this - two manuals plus a full pedalboard.  And we had toys on the floor, so yes, this looks very familiar to me. 

We even had an organ at home.  Mom traded in the old, dark upright piano she had as a child for a newer piano and an organ.  They sat opposite each other for many years at home.  I loved to play on the organ (as opposed to actually playing and making music, mind you), making sounds with all the different stops.  And there was a percussion box - the best part!

When I was in high school my mother signed me and my brother up for group organ lessons.  We went once or twice before becoming intimidated by all the old ladies there.  After a few weeks of missing class, the instructor, a kind but austere man I knew in our neighborhood, called us up and arranged for us to have our own group lessons.  Drat.  Now we were stuck and had to go to class - and practice!  ..grumble, grumble, practicing...

I didn't know that our organ teacher, a man of quiet dignity, was a professor of organ studies at the university!  It was years later I learned had studied organ in Europe, won international awards for his performances, recorded CDs, and played on many continents.  I was lucky to have such a teacher.

I, along with the probably three other teenagers in the United States who played organ (it is a bit of a dying art), applied for organ scholarships.  The award money was not much, but it kept me in lessons at college (with another very gifted and accomplished organ teacher), and gave the opportunity to play on this amazing instrument:

It was pretty darn awesome.  When my roommate, a music major, unexpectedly lost her hearing, she would go into the hall and sit with me on the organ bench.  I'd play something wonderfully loud, like Phantom of the Opera, and she'd sigh happily, feeling the music of the organ when she was unable to hear it.  I loved, but did not very often dare, to crank it up loud and open all the stops.  That only happened on late weekend nights when everyone else was out - or just not in the music building.  My favorite stop was the wind chimes that went on in a steady silvery shimmer when their stop was pulled.  

At that point, I decided that there were two other organs, among the best west of the Mississippi, that I'd like to play one day.  And I wanted to play the organ in the temple.  What lofty ambitions we have in our youth.

As the years passed, I often played the organ for Sunday services at church.  I played the organ with toddlers on the bench and a 6-day-old baby in a sling.  I taught other pianists the nuances of organ technique.  I even arranged piano and organ duets.  But I never did take care of those three bucket list items.  

Until recently.  I'm tickled to have a regular shift in the temple now, where I play beautiful hymns to soothe the soul.  It's not loud, and it's not technically amazing, but it is pretty awesome.  I've never felt such peace between my heart and my fingers.  And I'm grateful for that sweet spirit that fills me, and even wafts home with me.

The temple is a wonderful place, and I feel it a great privilege to be able to serve a little bit there.

Finger Food

I recently remembered eating my mom's pull-aparts.  She would take a few rolls of those cheap refrigerator biscuits, pop them open - that was my favorite part.  She dipped the dough circles in a mixture of melted butter and orange juice concentrate and "snug them up" in a bundt pan.  She'd bake them until the house smelled warm and citrus fresh, then invert the hot pan onto a plate.  We were supposed to wait until the stuff was cool, but we couldn't wait.  Waiting for food when it is right in front of you is hard for a hungry child!  We'd burn our fingers a little bit, pulling apart the gooey rolls.  Then we'd burn our mouths a little bit by eating them when they were still oven-hot.

But they were so good and sweet, in spite of the chemically taste of the refrigerator rolls.  Hot sweet breads are the best, aren't they?

So this week I made my own, with bits of dough dipped in a butter-orange juice mixture.  I didn't have my mother's recipe so I just made it up as I went.  I wasn't sure exactly - until they came out of the oven and I saw my own children clamoring to pull apart bits of sticky sweetbread.  It was a hit.

After that, I branched out and tried a savory version.  I took a round loaf of bread and cut the top in a cross-hatch pattern, but not quite all the way through.  Kind of like slices one way and then slices the other way, too.  It ended up looking like a bloomin' onion.  I melted butter and mixed in garlic salt and other spices and drizzled it over the bread, making sure to get it in every cut.  Then I covered it with grated cheese, again getting some in all the cuts.  I covered it in foil, baked until the cheese was melted, and stepped back as it disappeared with all my boys around.

It was gone so fast I had to whip up another version with barbecue sauce and mozzarella cheese.  It
 was gone nearly as quickly.

It's good to have good food to feed my family.And I got to remember my mother for a few minutes.  Thanks for loving us, Mom.  Thanks for teaching me how to love.

A Stitch in Time

A long time ago, there was a lovely young woman who was engaged to be married.  She was bright and talented, often entertaining her friends and family with performances on the piano or organ.  She excelled at school and earned high honors for her time there.  She dressed nicely and was quite pretty.  Her intended, though not well known to her family, was said to be fun and charming.  She was about as in love as any woman could be, and happily spent her time planning for their upcoming married life.  

Her trousseau became well-stocked as she purchased a set of white china and kitchen sundries for her new home.  Her mother busily crocheted colorful edgings on white cotton pillowcases.  A favorite sister-in-law, married to her eldest brother, began cutting fabric to construct a quilt for the new couple.

She took dozens of fabrics in muted pastels and deeper reds and blacks and began cutting them into small pieces.  Each scrap had to have an exact shape to fit into the particular pattern she had in mind.  When all the pieces were cut, her scissors no doubt slightly dulled and her hands sore, it was time to lay them out and begin assembly.  The small patterns in ginghams, stripes, florals, plaids, and even polka dots were arranged with a simple yellow background, giving the quilt a cheerful countenance.

How many hours were spent in making tiny stitches with needle and thread, I can only imagine.  Every stitch was hand-sewn, pulling the edges of the fabric together with well-wishes for the couple's happiness.  Sometimes the pieces fit together as they ought, and sometimes they did not.  Some pattern lines flowed smoothly, others did not match up exactly, and some of the shapes are slightly distorted.  

At long last, the days and likely weeks of piecing were done.  The quilt front was finished and beautiful.  Next it was time to do the quilting.  She sandwiched a fluffy batting between the finished frontpiece and a plain yellow backing, pinning the edges together carefully.  

Now the stitches followed the lines of the pieces.  They outlined and distinguished the pattern.  Instead of so many individual little pieces, the larger shapes of the circles came out.  Between each ring, a four-petaled flower was stitched.  Each line of stitching had to be as pretty on the back as on the front, and I'm sure many threads were picked out and pulled out when puckers or flaws were found.

When that tedious work was finally done, a binding was sewn around the edges and the quilt was laid aside to be gift wrapped and presented at the wedding.  So many hours.  So much work.  And at the end, a piece of living art, breathing with the love and skill and creativity of its maker.

And so it is with us.  Each little piece is a snippet of our lives.  Our colors range from happy to sad and discouraged to triumphant.  The patterns and textures vary as we grow and learn, and as others enter and pass out of our circles.  Each scrap is held together with stitches, so small as to be nearly invisible - habitual, unimportant, routine, perhaps dull.  But with every snip of the scissors, every little choice of a fabric, every pass of the needle, we sew together our lives.  

In the end, I think we will be surprised at what an amazing whole our crazy lives become.  The mishmash of colors, the un-straight lines of our experiences, the places where our plans did not meet our expectations, and the plainness of our backgrounds can all come together in a beautiful pattern.  The rings of our breathing encircle us and connect us with others near to our hearts, all quilted together in love.  Beautiful.

Thank you, Aunt Shirley, for the lesson and the love.

Double Wedding Ring Quilt, made by Aunt Shirley for my mother's wedding.  ca. 1964

Scalped!

The fruit trees here are overgrown.  I remember when they were planted, even though I was only four years old.  They were supposed to be semi-dwarf trees, and stay small enough that the fruit would be easily picked.  They were placed in a line across the backyard, like ducks queuing up to get into the ark.  2 apple, 2 peach, 2 plum, 2 apricot, and 2 pear trees, all sunk into the ground by my gardening grandfather, as a gift to his daughter at the purchase of her first house.

We watched those trees grow along with us, always wanting them to be bigger so we could climb them.  And then they started producing fruit and we spent many hours picking and cleaning and cutting and cooking the bounty into jewel-toned jam.

Every spring there was a (mostly) friendly tug-of-war between my father and mother about who would prune the trees.  I don't think either of them really wanted to do it, so they each wanted the other to take care of the job, but they each thought the other would do it wrong.  So do the job, but do it my way!  My dad was a shear-er, and my mother, taught by her green-thumbed father, was more of an arborist.  I laugh now, remembering the struggles, and because I haven't yet developed the skill of proper pruning.

Now there are only 3 trees remaining: apple, apricot, and a little pear tree.  The apple and apricot trees have long since forgotten that they were supposed to be semi-dwarf, and have outgrown their easily-picked size.  Something needed to be done.

Unsure of my meager knowledge, I called a neighbor to ask for assistance.  He came over the other day, and took care of the job.  As the pile of lopped-off branches increased, he chuckled and asked me not to tell my mother what he was doing.  He, too, knew of the feud.

And now the poor trees are bare.  Trimmed and shortened.  I'm not sure we will get much fruit from them this year, but at least we will be able to reach it all!  Now, how do I get my boys to haul off all these branches?

Thanks, nice neighbor-guy!

When I'm 70

I was cleaning up my room yesterday.  That may not seem like a big deal, but it has been a mess ever since we moved.  There are just too many things that don't really have a home, so they end up in our bedroom.  Or things that need to be kept out of the way of small children.  They end up in our room.  Papers and bills and papers that need to be kept would usually go in an office, but we haven't had one.  The file cabinet is in the storage garage.  In our room.  My favorite books?  In our room since I don't have any bookshelves.  Christmas presents waiting to be wrapped?  Leftover Halloween candy? Things that need to be returned?  Electrical cords?  Family pictures that haven't been hung?  All in our room.  It's been a disaster.

I decided that if I kept waiting for... what am I waiting for to be able to clean my room?  A personal organizer, a free week, or a bunch of money maybe.  I can tackle a big job in small chunks - I've done it before.  So I decided to do three little chunks: clear off the dresser, clear off the cedar chest, and hang a few pictures.  I need to feel like I sleep in a little sanctuary rather than in a storage unit.

Nope, no before and after pictures.  I think all of the pictures are before pictures, and I don't think I will ever get to the after stage.  But if you want to picture two feet of boxes and clothes piled on the cedar chest and the whole dresser covered several items deep, you'll get the idea.  It took a while.  Of course, it was much more involved than I thought it would be.  It always is.

Angel came to watch as I was finishing the cedar chest.  I put a few things in to store (a few baby girl outfits that I wore which had been hanging out in my mother's cedar chest, a baby quilt I got 21 years ago, a pair of little boy pants I made when my first started kindergarten, and some lovely pillow cases my grandmother had embroidered) and pulled out a small white tablecloth.  I spread the tablecloth over the worn fabric on the lid of my cedar chest.  Angel sighed.  "It is so pretty!  I think we should have a picnic here!"

When I reminded her that we only eat in the kitchen (she is not the tidiest of eaters), she paused for a moment before blurting out, "When I am 70 I will eat here, because you can eat anywhere you want when you are 70!"  Hmmm.  My dad is 70.  He eats in his bedroom or the living room sometimes.

 Maybe I'd better be making plans for where I will eat when I am 70, too.

The Christmas Decorations

We've finally got the Christmas decorations taken down.  It has been a trial this year, since I have my own decorations, as well of those of my mother.  She loved to decorate for Christmas!  She loved the lights and the mistletoe and the pictures on the windows.  She had Christmas tablecloths and garlands and doorknob jingles and even a Santa toilet lid cover.  At one time, she had a Christmas tree in ever room of the house!  One had pictures of  us kids growing up, one was decorated all in white and angels, one had bubbling water lights, one had golden balls and red apples...  it was fun to see.  Fortunately for me, she started downsizing before she passed away, so I had a bit less to go through.  

Going through it all, sorting out which things to keep and getting ready to set things up

We set up the angel tree in my dad's room and our Christmas tree in the front room.  That's about all the space we had.  I put up a bunch more decorations than I usually do (remember Mom=happy Christmas decorator, me=minimalist) just because it was there.  But after Christmas, it was sure nice to put everything away and have a bit of visual breathing space.

All packed up and ready to stash in the storage space in the garage.  This is what we ended up with - minus four(!) trees and the outside inflatables.

Ah.  Much better.

Good Morning, Good Morning!

I remember hearing my mother's voice as she walked through the house.  She would sometimes sing a little song in the mornings, as a cheerful way to wake us up, I suppose.

Way up in the sky
Is where the little birds fly.
And down in the valley
The little birds rest.

With a wing on the left
And a wind on the right,
The little birds sleep
All through the night.

Then up comes the sun
And the dew goes away.
"Good morning, good morning!"
The little birds say.

I walked through our neighborhood this morning, listening to all of the voices singing.  The voices were of the feathered variety, and there were sure a lot of them!  It seems that every tree had birds tucked among the branches.  There were chirpers and tweeters, squawkers and even a few warblers.  I wish I knew enough about birds to be able to identify their songs, but I love listening to them.  Our street sounded like Saturday morning at the Tweedlebug market, Good morning to you, too!

The weather has turned cold, and the summer birds are gone.  I've just started seeing a few of our winter birds, but in the middle are the migrating birds that stop in for a few nights.  Our street is lined with trees, a good 30 to 40 years old.  They aren't anything like the trees we had in our neighborhood in Washington State - those were enormous and stately.  No, here they are much shorter, suburban trees, but that means the birds are closer to the ground.

I grinned as I walked home, pulling my thin jacket closer around me.  The weather forecast said it would snow today.  I was glad that all my birdie friends were wearing down coats.  I ducked my head under the branches of one tree, half its golden leaves still shivering on the branches.  As I did, the tree came to life and a whole flock of little birds whooshed out.  The chilly breeze seemed to pick them up and whisk them right away.  I was impressed with how much noise their tiny wings made.

I guess if we work together, we can do amazing things.  Or just be more noisy.  My twins have that one down.

Where is Mom?

We were up in the canyon, all happily shooting the vibrant fall colors.  I had my nice camera (that I just found in a box!), David had the little point-and-shoot, Chris had his phone, and Eddie borrowed the iPhone.  After a few minutes, watching them all soak in the view and point out an especially beautiful spot, I wondered what we would do with these pictures.  Keep them on the memory card, most likely.  I knew I would share some on the blog here, but as I haven't found the camera cords, I wouldn't be able to get the pictures off the big camera.  Anything I wanted to share would have to come from the phone.  

And why would I want to share it, anyway?  Usually we share pictures to show that we went somewhere, or to remind us of occasions.  I love to look back and see my children happy.  My favorite scenic shots are of the view... with my family in front.  I'd rather have a picture that tells a story than a postcard-perfect vista.  And then I remembered this article about mothers not being in the pictures.  I had read it a few years ago, but now it was pushing to the top of my brain.  I'm never in the pictures.  I'm not.  I'm always the one taking the pictures.  And my kids may not remember that I was even there with them!  I wish I had more picture of my mother, but she was so self-conscious of her appearance.  Man, I miss her.  Nope.  Don't want to be the invisible mom.

So I grabbed the iPhone while Eddie was taking his turn with the binoculars, gulped, and took a picture of myself.  Hate selfies, but it was a little bit more acceptable this time because this is the only way I could get a picture of Chris.

Look!  Here I am!  I went up the canyon with you, family!  And so I'm going to spend the next week (gulp) taking pictures of us doing things, with me in them.

Take Me Away!

It's been one of those days.  Everywhere I turned, someone wanted me.  

"Mom!  Can I play games on the computer?"  

"Mom?  What is for after-school snack?"

"Mom?  Angel is in the street again."

"Mom!  Log me on!"

"Mom!  I'm hungry!"

"Moooooooommmmmm <sniffle> heeeee hit meeeee!"

"Mom?  What's for dinner?"

"Mom? Oh wait.  When will Dad get home?"

"Mom!  I'm hungry!"

Mind you, I like being wanted.  I think everyone wants to know that they are important.  But when my services are so insistently demanded, I get a little worn out.  It's kind of like this old Calgon commercial.  Watch this - I love it!

So when life gets rough, just get in your giant sunken bathtub with some bath salts or bubbles or magic potion and it will transport your exhausted, naked body to the top of an ancient Grecian temple,  There, the blue skies and fluffy clouds and amazing vistas will instantly melt away all your troubles.  Prerequisites include flawlessly shaved legs (no shaving in a Calgon bath), hair done up in a romantic chignon, and a vase (pronounced vahz) full of fragrant flowers.

Sounds like a good plan to me!  So as soon as the kids were all tucked in bed, lights turned out, teeth brushed, stories read, prayers said, I headed off for the bath.  Yes, it went in that order.

I grabbed my new romance book and found a decorative bottle of lavender bath oil with random baby flowers floating around in it.  I pulled out a freshly laundered fluffy white bath towel.  I even got out a tin of chocolate and mint bath scrub, but it had gone rancid so I put it back.

Looking around, I snuck off into the bathroom.  Can't have anyone know I'm there, or the bathroom door banging would never stop.  I quietly opened the door, flipped on the light, and... Calgon!  It's my Grecian tub, just waiting for me!

Some imagination required.  My mother had a thing with duckies.  Cute, no?

Being Gentlemanly

All my life I have heard about how to be a gentleman.  My mother was constantly instructing my four brothers (and me) to not put our elbows on the table.  Say please and thank you.  Don't belch.  We were often admonished to "mind your manners!"  Although we were (and still aren't) perfect, I think we eventually learned how to behave ourselves, and I don't think we caused too much embarrassment to our sweet mother.  I hope not, anyway.

During those same formative years, I remember her often teaching my brothers how to behave around girls and women.  They were instructed to open the car for my mother.  They learned to open doors and let the women go through (although I don't remember being on the receiving end of these practices).  I do remember her admonishing them to "be gentelmen."

I just got a lovely book from my dear sister-in-law (thanks so much!), and I read it that very day.  Twice.  It was set more or less in England's Regency period, similar to Pride and Prejudice.  Oh, I enjoyed the book!  For some reason, I have always been drawn to the gentle refinement of that era.  Maybe I'm just a sucker for Jane Austen's writing.  No, that's not true.  I have suffered through a few of her books that I thought were abominably dry and unnecessarily long.  And there are a lot of things I don't like and find unfair or restrictive about that period.  But I love reading about it, living it vicariously.  I would even like to live there for a short while.  I would.

I think the thing I like the most is the emphasis on being a gentleman.  All those good manners that my mother worked so hard to instill in my brothers are there, and bigger than life.  Similarly, I am constantly trying to teach my boys to be nice and mannerly and kind.  Please don't belch at the table.  You can use nicer language than that.  No, we do not comment on the passing of gas.  It's a constant battle of refinement against our more coarser nature.

I love to read (and got some of my boys hooked on it, too!) The Art of Manliness.  That's what I'm talking about here.  Let's just peruse some of their articles, shall we?  How to wear a leather jacket with style.  Bringing back common sense.  How to roll up your shirt sleeves.  Why every man should be strong.  Being a gentleman at the office.  This is not sexist.  It's just how to be the best man you can, and how to be strong and nice at the same time.  I think it's a worthy goal.

I was a bit frustrated this morning, and I was thinking some uncharitable thoughts.  My inner mother jumped out, and I nearly admonished myself to be more gentlemanly.  Hmm...  Now that I think about it, I don't remember being taught how to be ladylike.  Only in keeping my skirt down and not climbing trees in a dress. The picture of womanhood that is being advanced in our society is remarkably... manly.   I am not a man, not am I interested in becoming one.  That is not to say that I am any weaker in character, for that is entirely untrue.  But there is a fine difference between being a woman, and being a lady.  Are we losing the art of being feminine and strong and kind?  What happened to being a ladylike?  I'm wondering.


P.S. I'm not affiliated with The Art of Manliness.  They have no idea who I am, although I'm a huge fan, and raiser of sever gentlemen-to-be.  I even sent off one of my missionaries with a double edged safety razor and shaving soap, just like they recommended.

P.P.S.  Jay always told me that he would never strike a lady.  That's what he daddy taught him.  But with a wicked twinkle in his eye (probably after being hit by a pillow flying out of my grasp), he did admit that if a woman hit him first, then she was definitely not a lady.  Stinker.