Gerbil Tragedy

Peace rushed in my room hysterical this morning. We think Brain ate his brother gerbil Snowball, partly. Ugghh.

My son thinks he forgot to feed them. He plays with those creatures everyday, and I'm just not sure that's what happened. Peace has a shirt dedicated for gerbil use and it's literally in shreds from all their chewing and running about all over my child. All our animals are treasures to him, and I know he would never intentionally harm any living thing, except maybe his annoying brother.

To be perfectly honest, I don't like gerbils. Creeping, fast varmints with long tails always scare me. In my head, I know they are sweet little pets, but in my heart I think Bubonic Plague and Black Death. One of Peace's favorite pasttimes is to sneak up on me, poke his gerbil in my face and exclaim, "Mom, I caught a mouse!"
I scream every last time. He's also repeated this activity with a computer mouse in hand with the same resulting response of real terror from me.

I spent some time talking through tears with Peace. His first response to the whole thing was "Oh, God! I HATE myself. I am a terrible person. I let this happen."

I step in. "Whoa, right there, guy. Let's not say another thing which isn't true."

We talked out all the possibilities. Yes, maybe the gerbils were hungry. Maybe they just fought. Maybe, though highly unlikely, Janet the cat actually got her way this time. She's been stalking the gerbils for years. In fact, Snowball was blind in one eye from being carried around in Janet's mouth. We will never know for sure, but I led Peace to forgiveness of himself no matter the circumstance. God knows his tender little heart never meant this to happen and forgiveness is the only way to go. The other route, self hatred, only leads to deeper places of regret. Peace also prayed to forgive gerbil brother Brain.

So, today my son will bury a friend. Outside the sky is grey to match the mood. I'm sad for my boy but am grateful Peace is learning tough lessons of loving, losing, and forgiving in the small ways before he's a man. He'll have some experience under his belt for the harder things in life to come. They will come.

Blogger I adore

My dear husband set up a blog a while back but honestly couldn't figure out out to use it. I still can't figure out after many tries, how to create a blogroll or put a photo of myself by my blog name. Yet, I taunted my dh about actually posting on his own blog. He's begun and it's a beautiful thing even if I'm ever the only one who reads it.

Svetlana Turns 39

Instead of end times, Knoxville News Sentinel should have been covering a far more interesting story in Deerlodge, TN. Svetlana turned 39 on November 11, 2005. She is a woman of intrigue, great wit, beauty, and perhaps the most clever person I know.
Plans to become a U.S. Ambassador to Russia have been postponed so she can raise her daughter and a little sprout on the way, create and keep a beautiful home for the children and her husband, and carefully build a community college library.
The celebration of her birthday Friday included the following and more: a huge bonfire about which all the boy children asked repeatedly, "What else can I burn? Can I put more wood on? Are there any other items around the farm I can add to the fire?", hotdogs and veggie dogs, every kind of drink you can think of from juice boxes to wine, birthday cake, cookies, chili, something appley, chips.
All Svetlana really wanted for her birthday was a glass nice red wine. However, it's the one thing in her first trimester of pregnancy she could not have. She could only sniff the luscious bouquet of fermented grapes and sob. Unfortunately, morning sickness has been not limited to mornings, and she never tasted a single bite of the birthday cake either. I hope she found some consolation in the antique pale green mug with a spray of lavender painted on inside bottom of the cup which Helen and I had given her.
No one is going to believe she's 39 this year, because other people have ruined that age by lying to conceal their real age. Also, she truly doesn't show age. I've known her since we were 7th grade science lab partners, and she's long outgrown the awkwardness and torture of junior high chunky glasses and skin and bone, to become a svelte, graceful admirable woman. The striking sharp features of an angular chin and nose are softened by milky and clear skin while the nip of winter in the fall wind touches her cheeks and lips with deep red roses. She's known in her daughter's preschool class as "Anna's funky mama". The tiny flowers on her summer shifts and rich wool for cold weather accent her shabby chic classic style.
More than her pure and simple beauty, I love Svet's kind and thoughtful heart. She and Baryshnikov are the kind of folks who love and protect the dignity of those around them. Svetlana's welds her sharp wit to overcome natural discomfort of conflict, but she carefully and consciously avoids aiming at arrows at others. She's a hero to me. How could I be so lucky to call her friend?
Happy 39th Birthday, Svetlana. Here's to another 27 years of youth together. After that, we may call ourselves wise and not old.

The End of the World as We Know It

The story in the Knoxville paper

Knology manager trumpeted visions of end times to media

By LARISA BRASS AND BILL BREWER, brass@knews.com, brewerb@knews.com
November 12, 2005


The general manager of Knology's Knoxville operations has been fired after expressing religious views about the end of time to local media outlets, including the News Sentinel.
John Gilmore, 34, has managed the local office of the Georgia-based provider of cable television, Internet and phone services for the past five years and has been with the company for six years. He was relieved of his duties Thursday.


"Looks like you made it." Clay speaks to me when I walk into his home Saturday morning from a pleasant night of sleep at the guest house.
"Huh?" I had forgotten all about our conversation around the bonfire the night before.
"The world did not end and we are all still alive today. Isn't that something?"
"Oh, yeah! It's good to be alive."

I don't know John Gilmore from the article, but his name, face, and voice had been all over the news in Knoxville last week, because he predicted a major tragedy would happen to end the world on November 11, 2005. I am not sure why he got all this attention except for the fact that people may be feeling shell shocked and fatalistic from the school shooting and three house fires in this area claming many lives recently.

More than likely I do know friends of John, because I know lots of technology wizards like him around town, and I don't want to make fun of him or his beliefs. I'm just sad that when something like that is publicized and nothing really BIG happens, he'll have no credibility. In the future, the label of conspiracy theorist will stick like glue to that man. I suppose his getting fired is something BIG in his life. He'll have to battle crazy reputation verses great talents and gifts from here on out.

Gone, gone, gone

Gone! Gone. Gone. Despite my Norton's hard at work, a horrible virus hijacked my computer, and except for a few files and photos which took hours to download because of the durn varmint inside my machine, Buck and I had to start over from scratch. The good news is that all those lost files of writing are still inside my head. The bad news is that some of that writing I'll need again may take a good long time to get back down in a file.
I tried not to cry as Buck asked me, "Which files do you want me to try and save? And which aren't so important?" Forced 'puter decluttering. I only chose about 10 documents, including one I've been working on for publication for a long while, and it took a very long time to recover each one. My songwriting husband had his recent work burned on a cd which was such a blessing. He told me those were huge files, and I knew most likely he would not have had time to recover them all before the virus utterly destroyed our computer altogether.
I'm taking this as a metaphor for life. I've always said, "I can walk away from everything and not be bothered when it comes to things I own." Today I had to put my money where my mouth is. I had a few minutes to decide essentials and hope for the best to keep them. Whatever was lost, I won't know until I try to find it again. There was simply too much to sort as time marched toward destruction. It was only words, files, work, thoughts. Just yesterday, a family a few miles away had to walk away from a housefire without a mother and some children. A few days before that, a boy shot the principal and assistants at a school in my area of the world. One of them died. Did that make national news? His family won't have a dad walking in the door for supper anymore.
So today, I kissed my husband a little longer, and hugged my children a little tighter. My losses are far outweighed by my abundant life.

it's my house and I plan to live in it

My House
Nikki Giovanni

i only want to
be there to kiss you
as you want to be kissed
when you need to be kissed
where i want to kiss you
cause its my house and i plan to live in it

i really need to hug you
when i want to hug you
as you like to hug me
does this sound like a silly poem

i mean its my house
and i want to fry pork chops
and bake sweet potatoes
and call them yams
cause i run the kitchen
and i can stand the heat

i spent all winter in
carpet stores gathering
patches so i could make
a quilt
does this really sound
like a silly poem

i mean i want to keep you
warm

and my windows might be dirty
but its my house
and if i can't see out sometimes
they can't see in either

english isn't a good language
to express emotion through
mostly i imagine because people
try to speak english instead
of trying to speak through it
i don't know maybe it is
a silly poem

i'm saying it's my house
and i'll make fudge and call
it love and touch my lips
to the chocolate warmth
and smile at old men and call
it revolution cause what's real
is really real
and i still like men in tight
pants cause everybody has some
thing to give and more
important need something to take

and this is my house and you make me
happy
so this is your poem


If you didn't listen to Nikki recite this poem aloud last night on PBS, you missed somethin' worth hearing. I nearly missed it, but I caught the tail end of her program just on before the children piled on my bed to watch the sacred concluding episode of Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. Nikki struck me as a fast talking, well spoken, proud, elegant writer whom I admire greatly. She's captivating and had me talking out loud back to her with my boys pointing out, "She can't hear you, Mommy. She's on television, not in our room."
The truth of the matter is, I feel like I *know* her, because I love her work. Just like I feel like I know the weather man on Channel 10 News Straight from the Heart when I see him with his children enjoying the fall festival at a local school. Nikki came to Knoxville to spend her childhood summers with her grandma (I think it was her granny?), so we are practically neighbors except for the time space/continuum issue; this may have been before I was born, so, of course, it's hardly fair to say I know her at all.
I remember the feeling of horror and of wanting to run out the door once when I realized a room full of people, peers, I'd never met had read something I'd published about my work. A lady announced in front of everyone,"Are you the Truevyne who wrote..."? Blush, awkward wiggle. It's an uncomfortable feeling to be known by others and know absolutely nothing about their lives. I recognize my work as out-of-the-box, because I strive to make every idea a part of myself. However, this may greatly offend one who goes-strictly-by-the-book. Thus my impulse to flee the scene. Looking back, I believe I wanted to remain anonymous, so I could decide if I liked them *before* they decided whether or not to like me. I wonder if Nikki feels like flying away when she's recognized after hoping to simply remain one of the crowd?
She's a one of a kind. The kind I like.

My Nemesis- The Cautionary Tail of Osama Bin Kitty

Trust me. I do like cats. You already know I'll drop everything and look for a prodigal feline inclined to joyride. I tolerate Janet the cat jumping in my lap and kneading my belly everytime last time I sit down. I get up out of a dead sleep to let a cat meowing, "Let me in" while clawing on the window screen outside my bedroom window. Why don't those cats go to one of my son's (the owners) and jerk them clear out of dreamland instead of me?
However, there is one cat at Truevyne Farms which has become my nemesis. The mother ferrule cat, named TINO by my children and short for "This Is Not Ours", moved under our out building without permission and left a legacy of trouble when she departed our farm. Peace rescued one of her kittens from smothering under a pile of rubble, and as a result, felt he had a special life bond with the wild kitty. A few months later, this same kitten got stuck in our garage and against my severe warnings to let it be, he took it upon himself to "rescue" the cat again. I went to the garage several times and told the cautionary tale of the boy who got bit by a ferrule cat and had to get terribly painful rabies shots for weeks in a row to which Peace replied, "I won't get bitten." So, I directly addressed him, "Stop trying to catch the cat. I'll see stars if I have to take you to the ER tonight." I was certain he got my point and I walked back inside the house.
Not long after my departure, I heard a scream and then cries making their way towards me, "He bit me!" sob, sob "He bit me and after I saved his life! How could he?"

Sigh...

I immediately called a friend who is an ER doc. She gave me the skinny that in order to avoid rabies shots, one must find the offending cat, have its head chopped off and sent to Nashville to have its brains tested. Ewwww. It's rare for a cat to have rabies, but it is always fatal to humans and can only be treated by a series of expensive and not easily obtained injections. She recommended either catching the cat ASAP or getting to the ER.

Really big sigh...

My country neighbors (honest to goodness farmers) came over with a shot gun; the man whom I called couldn't resist bringing along the whole family. He camped out like a sniper until my dh arrived, so I could drive Peace to the ER. The innocent cat turned nemesis escaped capture and certain death by disappearing for the evening.

My doc friend set up our trip to the ER, and we received the most excellent care. However, after the third horrid shot into the wound on my son's finger, my son, myself and the nurse cried. She said my son looked just like her grandson. After two more gigantic shots in his rear, we made our way home at 1:00am.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we sought to capture the villain and end the series of rabies shots to follow; each injection cost much pain and $400. This is when the evil cat became known as Osama Bin Kitty. We caught *all* of TINO's other kittens, but never Osama. He was redubbed Mrs. Osama Bin Kitty when several more kittens appeared this spring.

Mrs. Osama's kittens have been spotted chasing our beloved free range chickens lately, and Buck decided to begin trapping these critters. First, he caught a skunk. A former wildlife officer had to take care of that nasty problem. Next, we captured a cat or two, and finally an opossum. All these creatures were released to more friendly environments than our farm. But today...

OSAMA was finally trapped. She definitely didn't have rabies or she'd have been dead a long while ago. Grrrrr. I gloated over her cage in the picture below before Buck hauled her off to Guitmo.

Noone expects the enemy to be a really pretty gal with beautiful green eyes and sleek coat.

Osama before deportation

Captured!

Pooh Bear digs through her purse to pay off the high priced bounty hunter(me).

When things come together

Lane is one PROUD grandma and whips out photos and conversations about this precious new bouncing baby boy with anyone who'll listen. She resides here in TN and I've known her for about 15 years. I ran into her not long ago and inquired about her treasure, "How's that baby boy?". A solemn look crossed her face, and she lets out a long sigh, "True, I'm going to tell you the truth. He's got a rare genetic disease, and my daughter is fixing to take him from her home in South Carolina and live in the Ronald McDonald House in Minneapolis. The doctors up there will do gene replacement over the course of several months. One of the weeks she'll be there, he will be kept in complete isolation, and she won't be able to see him. Her husband must remain in South Carolina to work and fly up to see them when he can. My daughter is a brand new mother and knows not a soul in Minnesota. Under all these circumstances, I am at peace. I am trusting God to get us all through."
A lump rose in my throat. Why a baby? Let it be me or at least someone who'll understand when they are being endlessly handled, poke, prodded, monitored by strangers in a hospital. I shook off my angry questions and searched my heart for answers. One of the practical sort came to me quickly.

"Lane, I believe you've shared this with me for a reason. I have something I'm going to work on for your daughter. I'll call you when things come together."


On a LISTSERVE I co-own, I'd read Myla's posts without knowing Myla in person. I've found her writing to be insightful and inspiring over the years, and hoped one day I'd have the chance to get to know her. The opportunity came in spades during my time in California this past summer. She attended the same training, and the small group size and presentations for one another created instant intimacy. Sometimes in evenings, Myla and I would cook dinner for one another. She suggested we go whale watching and we had lots of talking time on the trip. This I know about Myla- she is a the kind of person who actively seeks good for others, and a PROUD grandma. She enjoys her new bouncing grandson thoroughly. She and her daughter find joy together in the simplest of coos and kicking of chunky cherub legs.
Myla, her grandbaby, and daughter live in Minneapolis fifteen minutes from the Ronald McDonald house.

You've probably figured out my practical idea for Lane.

Myla and Lane's daughters, though complete strangers, have spoken over the phone a number of times now. Myla's daughter is on the hunt for an extra baby snow suit which are unavailable in South Carolina. The two have plans to meet as soon as the time comes for the trip. The world isn't such a lonely and unknown place when a friendly face is there to greet you.

I do love when things come together.

Everlasting Mercy

To get the whole world out of bed
And washed, and dressed, and warmed, and fed
To work, and back to bed again,
Believe me, Saul, costs worlds of pain.

John Masefield

Does any other mother relate to this quote like I do this morning?

Attention all cooks

Anyone have an excellent chili recipe to share? It's such a great time of year for that sort of comfort food, and I haven't ever found a recipe to stick with. I need vegetarian and carnivorous suggestions please.

Joy Ride

I,not my husband, own a 1959 red Ford truck. I named her Sally. Some of the red is the actual manufacturer's paint on her body and rust makes up the rest. I've mentioned before she's quite difficult to drive mostly because the brakes have never quite worked and a tire is always going flat. There is no inner tube in the tire and one has to fervently pray filling it with air. One must plead with the Almighty that the tire won't explode and kill the poor soul watching it expand to it's drivable round shape. While we've had both the brakes and tire have been repaired, no permanent fix has taken hold. I love the romantic country way the Sally looks, but she's not a practical vehicle since she's rarely ready to roll.

The tow truck pulled up today to drag my old girl away to the garage again. The driver asked a question which caused to me to laugh out loud. We'll keep that question a secret till the end of this post.

This particular tow truck driver must be assigned to our house specifically. The same large tattooed man has lumbered to our farm several times for Sally and other times for another vehicle in need of repair. One can distinguish the big black towing monster's rumble as it winds up our long gravel driveway.

Last year when Sally was towed away for repair at Carter's Garage in Sweetwater, TN, I got a phone call.
Mr. C: "You missin' a cat?"
Me: "Pardon me?"
Mr. C.: "You missin' a cat. When me and the tow truck driver done opened the truck's hood, a big ole'cat jumped outta the engine."
Me: "There were some wild cats living under the shed where the truck stays parked. Maybe one of them jumped in there and took a ride to your garage."
Mr. C.: "It was wild. Cain't catch it."
Me: "Don't worry about it Mr. Carter. I'm glad that wild cat's gone then. Thanks."

I hung up and casually went about my daily business. I began a reading lesson with Wise One and I spied Janet, our pesky cat, out of the corner of my eye. Noticing her gave me cause to poke around and find our other cat, Patches. Patches is Peace's best friend in the world. After I searched inside and out I asked the children, "Have you seen Patches anywhere? Help me find him." After a while of looking, the color began to drain from my face with the sad realization that Patches may have taken a long free ride from home.

I phoned Mr. Carter.
Me: "Mr. Carter, what color was the cat which jumped out of the truck?"
Mr. C.: "White with brown patches like."
GULP!
Me: (trying to keep panic out of my voice) "The wild cat was grey and black. The white and brown one you saw is a family pet, my son's cat. He loves that guy more than anything in this world. Can you try and catch him again? I'll be right there to pick him up."
Mr. C.: "I done tried and hit won't come nigh."

I dashed around the house scooping up children, shoes, jackets, and began shouting orders,
"EVERYONE in the van now. We have to go look for something really important."

Tator asks as we clamber into the van, "What is it mom?"

I mustered a happy mommy voice to say, "Don't worry now. We will find what we are looking for. It seems Patches got in the hood of the red truck and hitched a ride to see Mr. Carter at the garage."

"Dear God, pllleeeaasssee let Patches be okay." Peace cried out in terror. He caught the seriousness of the situation immediately. He knew Mr. Carter's Garage sits on a terribly busy highway, and his best friend was horribly lost and in danger.

The children literally prayed for safe keeping for the cat, and we all tried to comfort Peace's broken heart on the fifteen minute drive.

When we arrived, Mr. C. Pointed yonder and told us, "I ain't seen that cat nowheres since hit jumped and tore off thataway."

The children and I called his name, "Patches, Patches, kiiiittttyyy. Come, here boy. Paaaatccchhhes" as we hoofed the surrounding neighborhood in the direction Mr. C. indicated. We went to dozens of peoples houses and knocked. We talked with anyone who would answer the door. We pleaded our "cat finding case" and left our phone numbers for anyone who would take it. After an hour of traipsing about Sweetwater, I announced, "We will not give up until we find him, but we're going to drive around instead of walk for a while."

As my bunch headed back to Carter's parking lot/junkyard to our van, Pooh Bear, who was three years old at the time giggles, "There he is." We all turned our bodies to locate what on earth she saw, and there, lo and behold, the wayward cat proudly emerged from under the wrecked heap of a torn up car. Peace ran to scoop up Patches while sobbing with relief. "I was so worried about you. Please don't you ever leave me again." He buried his tears into Patches fur. Mr. C. Stepped out of his office overhearing the commotion and spoke, "Son, you don't have to cry. He looks like he ain't hurt or nothin'. Gracious, such a fuss over a feline."

Patches, who doesn't enjoy car rides, mewed nervously the whole ride home. My clan returned home with hearts and cats intact. In fact, our hearts expressed thanks for answered prayer about a prodigal stowaway.

This is why the tow truck driver's knowing question about the old red truck today produced laughter from me.
"Got any cats in there?"

Sudoku

Bright Minds Publishing Company has successfully convinced me that my children need to think critically. Most days my children have logic puzzles as an academic assignment. Not owning the most logical of brains, I muddle through with the children. However, at times, I am forced to ask them to wait for Buck to come home and tell them how to proceed. I just can't always figure things out. This is precisely why Hillary Clinton wrote the book _It takes a Village_, which I never intend to read. The title tells me what I already know. My brain cannot do all things on its own; I NEED other folks helping me and teaching my children.
My husband found a website which has an array of logic puzzles- www.krazydad.com. He handed the boys new sudokus (number squares puzzles)each day. Wise One loves this type of thing and asks for more at every turn. Friday Buck printed up an easy one to have us all race filling in the numbers. Buck finished light years ahead of us all, me second, and Wise One third. Peace quit before he was finished. Little did Buck know that he'd unleashed a sudoku passion in me when asking me to race. Since Friday, I print up a new easy sudoku in every spare moment. While dinner cooks, I work on these sheets. After picking the garden, I puzzle. I do a sudoku between brushing my teeth and flossing.
I'll know I'll quit after I get past the easy puzzles, because I'd rather read. I just haven't found the right book to start just yet. I like book my husband would deem "girl books"- Amy Tan, Barbara Kingsolver, Jane Austin, Gene Stratton Porter. Any suggestions for my next book? I've got to wean myself from these sudokus somehow...

Our new chicks growing into hens

For Thicket Dweller

Finally a veiw from the front porch.

Wise One Picking Peppers

I took this photo in the garden. Butterflies are all over the second batch of zinnias.

Logic verses Truth

An illuminating conversation with some excellent thinkers yesterday led me to these comments.

Logic eludes me at times. I become stubborn and unteachable. I don't remain open to different ways of learning. However, I do value logic. Logic is a great path for a bright mind to follow, but I recognize its limits. There is no inherent beauty in it. In fact, the path can even conclude at nothingness, harshness, even stark despair. Someone I love does not love me. I hurt and there is no way out of this pain. I envy. I can't change. Sometimes logic lacks something essential at its core- mercy.


There is an alternative with exceeds logic. Truth. Truth has a fundamental beauty. In truth there is purpose, meaning, love. Even if the truth is difficult, one will find hope linked alongside it. Someone dear does not love me, but I can still freely and deeply love. I will not hurt forever. I have all I need; I lack for nothing. I can find the help I need to change.
Truth offers hope.

Buck and his fancy MiMi knitted hat.
True Vyne Garden, on this late day of the season.

Another Secret

I'd like to become a famous movie critic, but I'm not so sure I have the talent for it. You decide...

A Very Long Engagement=A Very Long Movie

Ordinary Day

The sky is almost white today from the bright light of fall.
Why does fall produce such a brilliant shimmer and not as much heat as the summer sun? I do understand our position on earth is farther away from the sun and not as warm, but why am I blinded by it's light in the fall like no other time of year? It has not been cold enough here in Tennessee yet to wrestle the green out of the leaves and splash the landscape with egg yolk yellows, blazing reds, and bursting oranges. The burn of summer is on its way out the door so far leaving behind a fading green. The bell peppers and tomatoes in my garden still produce daily; so far we've experieced no freezing temperatures at night. New volunteer seedlings spring up from the ground- zinnias, dill, tomatoes, melons, beans because of the plants which I allowed to go to seed. It'll be a little sad to see all those cute babies wiped out from the first frost. My lettuce has rejuvenated in the cool, and our family will have some nice salad if the bugs don't beat me to it first.

The sweet smell of baking fills my house. It's a cooking day. Have I mentioned before that I love to grow food, but I don't like to cook? In fact, I'm a bad cook. Though my step father while I was growing up was a chef(!), I was too full of attitude and arrogance to learn anything from him. Flavoring food does not come naturally to me. I don't know how to pick recipes from cookbooks or magazines which will taste good. I don't have a knack for inventing or following recipes. I secretly pick my friends on the basis of the excellence of their cooking skills- the better the cook, the closer the friend. I even keep friends who won't read my blog (Helen)if they invite me over to dinner now and then.

I'm forcing myself to cook for three reasons today. I'm making a meal for a friend's family of six boys while she is out of town for a week. Six boys will be too hungry to care about the quality of the food as they gulp and guzzle. I'm baking cookies to benefit a bake sale for another friend's trip to India. She'll interpret sign language for a doctor on a medical mission for the poor in April. If I adhere strictly to the instructions on the Nestle's chocolate chip package, I can make a mean Tollhouse cookie someone will actually enjoy. I'm also cooking for my own family. Please never let the proverbial cat out of the bag that other children do not have to suffer through such bland and tasteless meals. They'll find out soon enough on their own that their mother lacks gourmet talent.

In the evening, I'll meet my Uncle W at soccer practice for Wise One. I'll take him a plate since he works here during the week but lives out of town, and he'll compliment my supper. He's a kind man. His wife, my Aunt Gaye, is one the best southern belles and southern cooks of all time. She, however, does all her cooking after midnight and I couldn't possibly stay up that late to learn the fine art of frying chicken and canning apples.

I don't want to leave the impression that my shortfalls inhibit me from inviting people over for dinner. I don't let burned buns and boring casseroles stand in the way of time with dear friends. Stop on by when you're passing through TN. I'll serve something, and we'll spend the rest of the night emmensely enjoying ourselves together in conversation.

random

I thought I'd share a few things from this day.

While I'm getting my blog and chocolate fix this afternoon I have this little converstation as my little girl twists herself up in the long linen tan with roses curtain on the window next to my computer.

Pooh Bear: "Mommy, will it ever be night in heaven?"
Me: "Dunno, but I sure love stars."
Pooh Bear: "The stars ARE the light for heaven, mommy."






Earlier, I found Peace off task from his homescool again. He's eleven, but I practially have to stalk the boy to keep him on track with his academics. Peace is the kind of guy who would rather build forts than perform fractions, make a sword from cardboard and masking tape than sit write a paragraph. Around noon, I found him sitting with Pooh Bear going through Brain Quest for kindergardeners. I kept out of sight and listened.
Peace: "How many legs does a spider have?
Pooh: "I don't know."
Peace: "Eight, say Eight."
Pooh: "Eight."
Peace: "Correct. What's wrong in this picture?"
Pooh: "Humpty Dumpty is on a log not on a wall."
Peace: "Correct. You get a star!"
He leads her to an envelope he'd prepared with stars he cut out for her.
Peace: "What's missing on this picture?"
Pooh:"The horse doesn't have it's tail, silly." Giggle.
Peace: "Correct. You earn another star. Let's count how many stars you have."

He stayed guiding Pooh gently through fun and learning activities for half an hour.
I certainly did not interrupt to redirect Peace back to his lesson list. It felt like I was smack in the middle of the Priceless commercial.



Wise One happens to have the dream personality for the homeschooling mother. He gets his work out the night before it's due and begins. "I want a day off tommorrow, so I'm doing my homeschool tonight." In the morning, before I'm out of bed, the boy is handing me his completed lessons for checking. He's spent this day building with the erector set after he made his corrections.

Tator moans when I assign his language work. He grunts and sighs when he's working on math. "Why do I have to take another spelling test if I took one with Dad yesterday?" and "Why does anyone care about denominators anyhow?" He'd rather be running the United States of America than doing schoolwork. I ask him to put down Peace's copy of _The Hobbit_ and later Wise One's _Mrs. Piggle Wiggle_ and get back to HIS assignments.

I've spent the day successfully pushing the nagging thought from my mind, "I should get everything out for an early dinner." We're taking the boys and some friends to see Matt Redman and Chris Tomlin in concert. I would much rather and willingly make a home cooked meal for Matt and Chris then gather in our living room with instruments than rocking with 2,000 other people in a crowded auditorium. Since we actually don't know these men, but just feel like we do through their music, we'll have to settle for the latter.

Contrast

It's a fact that mothers can tell the difference in the cries of children. One cry means "I'm mad", another "I'm annoyed". Still another means "I need to be close to you." I recognized right away yesterday when I visited Nadine, my 43 year old cousin in a persistent vegetative state, that she was in pain by her cry. Her body uncomfortably curved in a parentheses to the right. Her face, resting on a towel to catch drool and tears, nearly touched the bed rail, and her blood shot eyes squinted and strained in the opposite direction. She grunted and slightly verbalized a puff of the sound "bbbbbuuu"- a sound I've heard from unattended children in a crying spell. Her ruddy expression drew all her facial features tightly together and nearly matched the color of the short auburn curls on her head.
"Nadine, can you talk to me with your eyes? I want to help. I'll ask as many questions as it takes."

Pause.

"I can see you are really hurting, but I am willing to try anything if you can blink for me to tell you what you want."

No change. My plans instantly blown to really give her some time the way she might like it. She was hurting too much, been like that so long, she couldn't or wouldn't respond.

On the hundred mile drive to the nursing home, I lectured myself. Nadine has no choices about her own life, and today I will try and give her something she asks for. I will put aside my inadequacies and insecurities and find a way to be with Nadine for the afternoon. I carefully constructed sentences I hoped to convey to prevent rambling on nervously as I had last visit. I drew deep breaths thinking about the tension I'd feel with simply sitting and being with my friend. I will simply ask yes and no questions until...

I packed a fingernail kit, a Countryside Magazine, _Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul_, _What's so Amazing About Grace?_, _Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe_, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance_, and lotion into my deep purple Chinese silk book bag. The Plumeria lotion, a special gift from my workout buddy Cecily, had been given to me just for Nadine. Cecily had massaged her own dying mother with this particular brand, and Cecily couldn't since bring herself to use the lotion herself due to the memories which flooded her when she opened the cap. These tools were specifically selected in hopes for me to connect with Nadine.

I visited with her mother, Willa, first and asked if she'd like me to wheel her to Nadine's room for the visit with me. "True, they've moved Nadine to the room attached to my bathroom. I go sit with her all the time. She's going to get better. In fact, she has more feeling in her limbs than ever. She can't talk, but she grunts now." This was great news to me. Before,though they were placed in the same nursing home, Nadine and Willa could have been miles apart because of the long hallways Willa was physically unable to navigate through to get to Nadine's room. Nadine now has the tender and constant love of her mother just beyond that wall every single day. It also occured to me that Willa's generous spirit might draw kindness out in the staff tending Nadine.

I'd snuck in some contraband homemade chocolate cookies for Aunt Willa, because she's on the diabetic diet, and she savored each one. Willa, and probably everyone else there, hates the nursing home food. I don't blame her one bit; the stuff on her lunch plate didn't look more enticing than what I feed my dog everyday. Aunt Will offered me pale greens and diabetic fruit punch a number of times. "No thanks. I've eaten." I was thinking that what I ate yesterday counted as "I've eaten" as I spoke the words. I cut and filed Aunt Willa's nails and read a passage from a book she wanted to share with me. We talked about family members and our lives with one another. Then I walked the ten steps to Nadine's room.

That's when I found Nadine sobbing. My plan failed so quickly, and I sat there wishing I could do something, anything, to ease her pain. A nurse's aide entered, and queried the normal,"You her sister?"

I asked, "Cousin. Last time I visited she didn't seem like she was in so much pain. Is there anything we can do?"

"No, she cries like that all the time. She'll get some pain medicine in her IV when it's scheduled."

Huh?

The nurse mumbled something about me leaving the room for a few minutes, and I obeyed. I moved next door back into Aunt Willa's room who matter-of-factly answered my inquiry, "She cries like that, because she wants us to know she's still all there and trying to get back to us." My aunt is one of the kindest people I've ever met, but I was terribly uncomforted by this reply. Nadine wants us to know she is hurting and can nothing about it.

When the aide opened the door again, Nadine had been straightened from her curve to a more upright position, and the nurse was dragging out a garbage bag. Nadine wasn't sobbing anymore, and it was obvious to me her crying had been a way to ask for repositioning or a change of pads! I flashed with anger thinking how the caregiver couldn't or wouldn't make this simple deduction. Nadine held a squinted gaze on some dorky daytime soap opera on the television above, a show neither she or her roommate could have chosen to watch. I moved to make eye contact to communicate with her again. If I wasn't not terribly mistaken, Nadine looked miffed. I tried to meet her pupils with mine but she looked beyond me with her the slit of her one open eye.

"I can tell you aren't hurting anymore. Would you like to try and talk with your eyes? I've brought some books and I wanted to know if you'd like to listen as I read one?"

No response.

I open _Chicken Soup for a Mother's Soul_ and read a sappy story. I tried two more hokey stories as I watched for Nadine to look my way. Again, no response.

I chided myself for reading such dumb material to her. The stories were about mothers who could get out of bed, feed themselves, go to the grocery store while Nadine unwillingly required all this and much more to be done for her. She couldn't will her own twelve year old daughter Rose to visit much less bake cookies for her.

"Nadine, I'm going to read from one of my favorite books now. I wonder if you've read this."

I lifted the cover to her and cracked open _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_. I jumped in reading in my excellent theatrical voice with Chapter I "Lucy Looks into a Wardrobe". When I looked up for a response this time, Nadine was staring directly me at me. She didn't look mad anymore and her eyes were opened much wider than they had been. I lost my place in the book as I quietly celebrated joy and relief that I finally found a moment directly with her that day. I skimmed to find my place and continued reading about Narnia, fauns, lampposts, snow, sleighs for quite some time. I placed my hand on Nadine's arm and stroked it gently as I read. A nurse stuck her head in the door, and blushed that I noticed her. "Uhhhhh, hello" she stammered and quickly popped her head back out the door. Nadine listened intently and never averted her gaze from me. I paused as another nurse came into remove Nadine's feet and hand splints. These were on her to help prevent the natural atrophy which occurs in paralysis over time. It was the opportunity I'd prayed for to massage Nadine with the lotion. "May I put some lotion on her hands and feet?" I asked permission from the nurse.

"Sure. I bet she'd like that."

I uncapped the bottle near Nadine's nose and said, "This is Plumeria scented. I hope you like it."

No response, but she didn't turn her eyes away either. First, I noticed all Nadine's nails had been recently neatly trimmed. Nadine's limbs jumped a bit sometimes as I rubbed in the cream. I took a while lingering on each joint remembering a yummy hand massage the manicurists gave me last time I got my nails done. The Plumeria scent mixed in with the not-so-pleasant nursing home smells stayed with me until my shower the next day.

I leisurely finished another chapter of Narnia after the massage, and offered my love and a kiss on Nadine's forehead.

I stepped next door to gave my goodbyes and hugs to Aunt Willa. I promised to bring my children and dear husband to see her soon.

The nursing home took me to another world very outside my own. The time there always seems to stand still, and yet it feels sacred. It is my joy to step out of the chaos of four children, a farm, being a wife to simply chat in the calming presence of my dear Aunt and share a story with my cousin.

On the long drive home, Buck and I talked on my cell. He explained a crazy water leak in the yard, and I jolted back into my daily grind. Not to worry, I'd escape the daily grind again and enter another world with my own children when we snuggled together on the couches under the cover of comforters to read another chapter of _Christy_.

Fives

This blog is part of an idea found on Thicketdweller's blog- todaylesson.blogspot.com. I don't know enough blogs to tag yet, so I just gave the questions a whirl...

What were you doing 10 years ago?

In '95, I blundered my way through the first year of my son's life as a brand spanking new stay at home mother. I'd never been so flabbergasted by an occupation. Previously I tutored twenty energetic children from project housing and dragged them on field trips all over creation. Somehow I managed fine. When one wrinkly newborn birthed to me, I fell to pieces. Thank God for a dear friend, Anita. It was her first year of motherhood too, and her steady hand guided us both through the great turmoils of babyhood. We joined natural food co-ops, cooked almost every meal together, and made up workout classes for moms with babies.
Buck and I decided it best we find another baby (I never wanted to give birth again), so I wouldn't focus all my neurosis on just one poor creature, our son Peace. So, we began and completed foster-to-adopt classes ending with a foster newborn in our care.

What were you doing 5 years ago?
2000
Our family moved from the downtown city to try out the 'burbs. We bought the most gorgeous cedar shingled home with stained glass windows, fantastic landscaping, hardwood, front porch swing on a the dead end of a perfect street. Perfect lasted a month or two... I also discovered true love that year with the birth of my daughter Pooh Bear, my fourth. I think an article of mine "Catechesis of the Good Shepherd- a work of joy and wonder" may have been published in Montessori Today and Tommorrow's Child that year.

What were you doing one year ago?
Two years ago we fled the 'burbs and bought a little farm. Soon after I hopped when I should have hipped in my dance class and ended up tearing my knee to pieces. I ended a loonnggg rehab from that incident last year. I also took up the creation of Truevyne Garden- a home to many fairies, organically grown veggies, and fragrant flowers. I also acted as midwife to my first goat kids ever.

5 snacks
chocolate chip cookies
apples
bananas
milkshakes
smoothies

5 songs I know all the words to-

My husbands wants to know if I have to know all the RIGHT words to the song for this to count?

White Coral Bells- Lori Berkner
Secret World- Peter Gabriel
We Belong Together- Rickie Lee Jones
Been a While- Stained
Stronger Than Pride (entire Sade album)



5 things you would do if you had a million dollars
HARDWOOD FLOORS all over my house
build a guest cabin and fancy barn
pay off debt
live in Xian, China for a year and buy plane tickets for family and friends to visit
fully support TRIBE ONE of Knoxville's staff
invest

5 things you like doing-
reading
something physical
CGS with the little ones and adults
writing
watching great movies

5 bad habits
biting my nails
being short tempered with those I love most
making up words when I can't remember the right one
judging harshly
never checking my cell phone voice mail


5 things I would never wear again
Goth duds
Puffy lavendar bridemaid dress
Spiked heels
Jumpers with watermelons embroidered on them
Size 5 ANYTHING

5 favorite toys
ipod
computer
children
art supplies
books

I ask a dangerous question

I've asked the question of my children, "What makes me different from other moms?"
Here are their unedited (yikes!) answers.
1. You don't let us watch tv.
2. You don't let us have game systems.
3. You homeschool us.
4. You make us eat broccoli, but we like it.
5. You've been China without getting arrested.
6. We have to get our academic work done by 12, or we don't get special privileges like computer time.
7. We don't get real allowances from you. We get money for work when most kids get allowance for things like getting up in the morning.
8. When you do let us watch tv, it's Extreme Makeover Home Edition, but not to mention we haven't seen it in five weeks.
9. You took us to see Star Wars episode three on opening night.
10. You know how to milk a goat and taught us how to.
11. You let us have the second biggest dog in the world- a Great Pyreneese. Most moms would freak out when they see our dog Ripley.
12. You're so good at gardening we've still got tomatoes today, October 7.
13. You get drunk from half a glass of wine, but I've never seen you do it.
14. You bought soap molds a long time ago and have never made soap.
15. You told us not to name our chickens, but Dad named a few.
16. Your son is a Star Trek Nerd.
17. You always change the color of your hair.
18. You go the gym.
19. You cry at every single movie, including the previews for Narnia. I saw you cry at the ballet The Nutcracker.
20. You won't let me get a paintball gun.
21. You laughed the whole movie of Elf.
22. You let us go to Dollywood, and you'll go on every ride.
23. You are a daredevil.
24. You like to bake chocolate chip cookies.
25. I can't remember a meal you cooked that I didn't like.
26. You're really bad at baseball.
27. You make the best Shepherd's pie.
28. You always ask me to fix the eyes on the electric garage door openers.
29. You always wreck the lawn mower.
30. You love a clean house.
31. You allow swords in our house but no real guns (or cowboys).

Riding the relative circuit

My family attended the christening of our new little nephew over the weekend in Cincinnati. Buck was honored to become the godfather of the sweet little pumpkin, Baby Peter. Peter is the kind of infant who is mostly content and smiles at the slightest possibility of love. I bet he even smiles when a cat accidentally brushes its tail up against his chubby cherub legs. I swallowed a giant dose of cuddles and snuggles to ward off the nagging "I want another baby" monster. Simply smelling soy formula again worked magically to keep the dreadful beast in its iron cage. The odor triggered sickening memories of the gallons I spit up I swiped off my boy, my back, neck, hair, ears, floor, ceilings, cats etc. during my own Boodle Tator's foster babyhood.

I took up some toddler chasing with my two year old cutie niece, Meg. She's obsessed with how all things work. It took quite a bit of coaxing to lure the girl out of the gargage before testing the gas cans, weedeater, bike tires and gears, tools of all sorts. The grand finale ended with her climbing upon Uncle Jake's Harley and annoucning, "MINE!".

Our children enjoyed the heck out of their cousins, and I recognized my 9 year old niece, Beth, truly loves spending time with my daughter and myself. Beth has entered the developmental stage of loving horses which seems to always precede turning utterly boy crazy.

Our oldest nephew, Jake, cracked us up with his fourteen year old answers.
Me: "What do you like to do all summer?"
Jake: "Talk to my friends all day on computer."
Buck: "What was your homecoming date's name?"
Jake: "Logan."
Buck: "Logan is a boy's name. Was your date a boy?"
Jake: "NO!"
Buck: "What was her last name?"
Jake: casually "I don't know."
Buck: "Don't know your date's last name. How do you know she wasn't really a boy?"

Buck and I swam our way through the tensions and turmoil of extended family time. We wrestled our way to setting a half day limit at a relatives house bringing to a minimum exposure to the nutso elements such as sharp tongues or skewed opinions. While Bucks family would amuse most any sociologist, if Jerry Springer met me, he'd sink down on one knee and humbly beg me to round up my relatives for his show. The man would get top ratings and at least a year's worth of material from anyone with my genetic make-up. Both our families put the FUN in dysFUNction.

Fading

Her 42 year old head rested wearily on the kitchen table among a Hello Kitty notebook, pink and purple hair bows and head bands, McDonald kids meal toys, a comb, brush, unopened bills, dirty dishes, and assorted magazines. Mornings came early as she made her daughter ready for school. Her little curly headed girl, Rose, munched on Frosted Flakes as she circled the cereal bowl with her Breyer horse. “Mom, do I get 50 cents for icecream at lunch today? Mom. Mooommm.” Rose reached over and tugged her mother’s arm which fell limply from the table. “Mom! What is wrong with you?” she yelled. Toby slowly sauntered into the kitchen rubbing his temples, “Rose, don’t scream. I have a headache. Nadine, have you seen the key to the Jeep? Nadine, come on. Wake up.” He began to massaging Nadine’s back and quickly realized she was unresponsive, in fact, lifeless. He grabbed her shoulders, and she nearly plunged unconscious to the floor. “Rose, dial 911 NOW!”



I arrived at the hospital that evening. I was more than familiar with this sterile unhappy place. Its wall held nothing but countless sorrows and pain for me and many others in my family. Nadine’s oldest daughter had died here a few years before. How could a mosquito bite lead to meningeal encephalitis and the quick expiration of a gorgeous, firey, otherwise healthy 12 year old girl named Leigh? A dear red headed aunt of mine perished from cancer in this hospital. Just a few weeks before Nadine‘s collapse, I sat on nervously with a perfectly normal Nadine, Toby and sundry other relatives as her mother, my Aunt Willa, underwent brain surgery. The family divided the waiting room with tension and harsh judgment of one another, and in retrospect I wished I’d have spent more time with Nadine that day. I had no way of knowing this would be my last opportunity to chat side by side with my cousin. I’ve always loved the way her southern words slid from her lips and ended in surprising careful annunciation. I can hear the unusual dry lilt in her voice as I think of it just now. Her speech came out like a lovely dance with a sudden halt now and then to punctuate the movements. Her talk was steady and never contained much urgency even in tragedy. She’s a woman who kept unwelcome company with tragedy. Her father, a Pearl Harbor vet named Frank, drew his last breath a few short years before her oldest child passed away. Frank loved to tell knee slappin’ stories. His odd looks added humor to every tale; his ears stuck out further from his head than anyone else’s I’ve ever seen. Nadine inherited her sparkly eyes from this man. Nadine’s brother , my cousin Luke, died young mixing meds and alcohol perhaps. He was buried proudly in his blue jean overalls.


Nadine’s hair has always been a full mane of red curls, and her crystal green eyes could pierce a soul- she had the air of an Irish mountain woman Her mouth is perfectly shaped like one I’d practiced drawing in high school art class. She kept her nails perfectly though you could not say the same of her dwelling space. I remember being enchanted with her otherworldly beauty when I was a child. My favorite memory, perhaps not even real, is tightly gripping her body around her thin waist as we cantered on a bareback horse through the woods around her house, her curls lightly brushing my face in the gentle wind. She smelled of moss and ferns in a fresh forest.


Since that day at the kitchen table nearly a year ago, Nadine has not recovered. In fact, she remains in a constant and unexplained vegetative state in the same nursing home as Aunt Willa. Nadine can respond by blinking her eyes. Once for “Yes”, twice for “No”, but I don’t get the impression anyone visits much for her to respond to. The nursing home staff I spoke with say they rarely see anyone visit, me included. I am almost certain Rose and Toby go once a week or so, but I think of the endless hours in between Sundays which Nadine spends entirely alone unable to use her body or voice. What could a woman a few years older than myself do to fill unfathomable periods of time staring at the mobile Rose hung above her bed. Over the course of this year of imposed solitude for Nadine, I’ve been to China, read twenty books, grown a garden, made it through another year of swim team, blogged, painted my daughter’s room, taught my children, cooked a zillion suppers, laughed till my sides hurt, eaten till I wanted to throw up, cried so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. All the while Nadine breathes the same stale air and listens to the constant moans of an elderly and confused roommate day upon day, night upon night.


I am comforted that Nadine’s rest home room contains a recent photo of Nadine and Rose sitting together in a pose from Wal-mart. Another framed picture features some young girl riding a horse; I cannot tell if it’s Rose, Leigh, or Nadine. At least the staff can see Nadine was once, and not so very long ago, a person like themselves if they‘d simply take a moment to truly look into the photos and think such thoughts.


I’m irritated that the staff address her by her first name- a name I’d never heard before but must exist only on Nadine’s birth certificate. Our family must have tossed her first name out in favor of her middle name before I was born, but the nurse looks at me like I’m ridiculous when I correct him. “Don’t call her Millicent. Obviously, she hates that name. It’s Nadine.” I suddenly want to sob that Nadine can’t rise up and say so for herself. “Are you her sister? You look just like her.” the respiratory therapist asks. “Cousin, but thank you for the compliment. What awful thing have you done to her hair?” It’s shaved in odd spots, long in others, and I’m unpleasantly jarred by a memory of her in ICU the day this crazy thing plunged her into stillness. I cringed thinking of the horrid blood draining shunts spouting from the top of her head like the funnel on the tin man from Oz.


I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been in a situation of visiting a person I love in a persistent vegetative state before. Therefore, I haven’t had practice, and no one has brought forth a manual I could read up on etiquette at such times. At the least, it’s awkward. At the most, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done before. Nadine’s sharp eyes followed me as I approached her beside. It seemed she dared not blink. I asked if she knew me and she blinked, “Yes”. I think. I spoke to Nadine about her mother down the hall who couldn’t visit for several weeks because of a bout with pneumonia. I hoped someone had explained why she hadn’t been coming to visit. I talked about the pictures and cards around the room from Toby and Rose. I held her hand for a few minutes. I found myself wishing I was an expert at Yes and No conversation, but I simply couldn’t think of anyway to keep that going for more than one second. I told myself to sit still and not talk for fifteen minutes, “Just BE with her.” Time crawled, but I held fast . What drop of water is 15 minutes in a sea of immobility and continual loneliness? She didn’t look away from me, but in my discomfort with staring I glanced around at objects around the room every now and then. After 15 minutes, I told her I was going to find something to put on her lips. Her mouth appeared horribly cracked and dry. A nurse gave me a pack of Vaseline, and I squeezed it carefully across her lips. “Next time I come, I will bring a book and read to you. Some story I think you and I both would like. Would that be okay?” She blinked, “Yes”. I think. I sat a while longer and told her I was going to visit with her mom a while. I kissed her forehead and I back one step away from the bed. “I’ve always loved you. I hope you know that. When we were little girls, I wanted to be like you. I’ll visit again. You are precious to me.” Only I don’t think the words actually came from me that clearly. I fumbled and stumbled in my delivery. I turned to leave, and then I looked back curious to see if I still held her gaze. A single tear streamed down Nadine’s cheek, and she looked directly at me. I held my hand up in a wave and exited. Empty. I felt utterly washed out and full of guilt leaving my cousin like that. I stood for a few minutes in the hallway holding back tears and composing myself to brief walk to Aunt Willa’s room. I whispered some prayers of healing for Nadine and thankfulness for my own richly blessed life, and asked God to help me use my remaining time on earth well.

Deliver me. Place my feet on a solid rock so I might stand up straight and tall again.
Deliver me. All this sadness overwhelms but will not overcome me.
Rescue me. I am crushed but not entirely broken.
Rescue me. Grab my hand, lift me, and I will follow.
Trade in these ashes, and in exchange, give me beauty.
For my mourning, joy.
I will fly.

The tribute to little girlhood.

The Ruby Slippers

It may have started when I watched The Wizard of Oz as a young child. Dorothy's glittery ruby slippers may have made an indelible impression on my five year old heart. Or perhaps it's because I have a beautiful Aunt Artful, with incredible red hair and matching artful and passionate personality. Dorothy and Aunt Artful definitely had something I liked and still do. I like red. I like red hair and red shoes. Most all red hair, but not all red shoes. Over the years, I've procured many little girl red tennis shoes for my Pooh Bear. My four year old princess only dons her favorite sequined pink slip-ons these last summer days which prevent her from wearing the red Keds I always have at the ready in all sizes for her tiny feet. Back when she could not express her definite opinions, I'd gussy her up in one of her thousand gorgeous famous label hand-me-downs dresses, a matching pair of socks, and carefully tie on the appropriate sized red tennies. It never mattered to me if red seemed to clash with the colors and patterns of her dress. To me, she embodied my idea of complete babyhood perfection- ready for an adventure wherever her itty-bitty scarlet feet would take her. Now, I've lined Pooh Bear's room with a tribute down one strip of her bedroom wall with these sneakers from infancy to now. I've noticed other mother's keep a more conventional growth chart instead.

I personally believe the fairies, who live in my Peter Rabbit garden, wear red sneakers, but I have never been able to prove it.

I bought a pair of red Keds from ebay for myself when this obsession with Pooh Bear's footwear began. They offer no arch or other support and look rather like a boy's boat toy attached to my long feet. So, I began a search for the Holy Grail of shoes, comfortable red clogs. My husband and Helen even joined the hunt over the years to present me with the perfect Christmas present. But none of us could find the ruby slipper clogs of my dreams. That is until Helen and I visited Solvang, CA- the dutch clog and other things Dutch capital of the United States. While wine tasting and souvenir shopping, we happened upon a little shoe shop with a giant wooden red clog statue by the front door. I caught my breath at this beautiful sight. Perhaps this was my Oz. We scoured the hundreds of clogs- blue, green, flowered, suede, leather, rubber, sequined, wooden. I nixed nearly every red pair for lack of luster or comfort until Helen picked up a pair and stated, "I think I actually LIKE these red clogs." I think she may have meant "I could possibly tolerate this particular footwear on my dorky, obsessive compulsive friend's feet." Pretty? Check. Red? Check. Comfortable? Let's try 'em on.
"What do you mean you don't have a 9 Medium Modesto Red Softwalk clog? It's all I've ever wanted!" I growl at the saleslady. Helen wisely grabs me by the hands and says, "Take a deep breath. Perhaps we can order them." Yes, maybe the saleslady will be able to return home in the evening with her hair AND her eyeballs after all. Helen orders them for me and I count down the days UPS will deliver the blessed shoes to my doorstep. No such luck. The Softwalk company has discontinued the Modesto mule in red. You'll see in any old google search this shoe continues to come in a variety of gorgeous colors such as aruba, forest green nubuck, pacific blue, steel, amber, and aloe. However, red is OUT.
Buck and Helen endeavor to comfort the inconsolable me with complicated searches over the internet. "Wouldn't these Bass clogs work?" Helen timidly asks in attempts to ease my suffering. She and Buck find the mythical 9 M Softwalk Modesto Red Mule with egg crate soles, only to have the company confirm in email the shoes are discontinued a few days later. Saturday, I call the Zappo.com company who say they have one pair of my size in close-out stock in their Kentucky warehouse. "I'll believe it when they are on my feet" I mutter into the phone. "You will" she assures me.
THE sacred shoes arrived by free express shipping on Wednesday. It took all my self restraint not to kiss the UPS man (and Buck was watching). I put them on my feet as many times a day as I think of it, close my eyes tightly, and whisper, "There's not place like home."

Did you know the real Wizard of Oz ruby red slippers have been stolen and cannot appear at the Kansas festival this year? They will have the blue gingham dress and the witch's hat, and five of the original munchkins including the coroner, so you don't want to miss it. And a special note to the villainous thief who stole the ruby slippers, "Touch my new mules, and I'll get you my pretty. And your little dog too!"

Pooh Bear's first day of ballet class. She fixed her own hair, as usual. At least she didn't cut it AGAIN. And she chose her own jewelry. Though she is not open to my fashion ideas and it may not look like it, I got her to take out about five other hairbows and remove all but one necklace. She is a strong person with her own ideas. I admire her for that.

Wise One Speaks

Wise One, my eight year old son, innocently created smiles and giggles these last few days.

At the soccer field Saturday, this little guy inquired of Buck, "Dad, may I have a dollar to spend at the confession stand? I'd like some candy." Buck, quick witted man that he is, fired back, "Here you go, son. Here's a dollar, but you need to bring me back a couple of 'Hail Marys' and an 'Our Father' with the change." Wise One took the dollar with a big question mark expression on his face, "Uhhhh, thanks dad?"

And then last night, we shared dinner with our usual group of buddies. Alise, a sweet friend of ours, observed Wise One's plate and asked, "Wouldn't you like some meat on that bed of lettuce, cheese, and nachos for your taco salad?" In his dear and pleasant manner he replied, "No thank you. I don't care for any meat. Tonight I will be a veterinarian."

The Dig

I've been waiting for the pathology results from my physician about the waxy small mole I had removed from the skin over my clavicle last week. Mostly, I didn't pine over it, but Sunday I had a long talk with myself about what I'd do differently if my days are suddenly shorter than I'd hoped. The talk contained my thoughts of how to love my family and friends much better than I have today; about the legacy I desire to leave behind. I already try to live closely to the ideal, but I blow it almost daily. Somehow, could terminal cancer mysteriously give me the self discipline I lack now? One conclusion I came to in my chat with myself is that I would spend some of my life insurance money doing things with my family and dear friends that we'd have to save and plan for now. Another conclusion is that I do already possess what I need to love better- I just need to practice it. More.

I called Helen to say I was making a list of ways she'd have to become the mother to my children if I kicked off early. She told me I'd just better stick around. When I talked to my dear husband about fears of melanoma, he mustered a large sigh in the form of a mildly cross (not cross with me, just the idea) "Hmmm." Later he mentioned, "I expressly forbid you from having a lethal form skin cancer." I do love the sense of humor surrounding me, warmly letting me know I am loved. I count for something.

What is it about the prospect of death that makes me take a closer look at life? Why do this digging in the dirt of my soul?

Today I got the call that the growth is NOT melanoma, but it is a mild cancer formation known as basal cell carcinoma. The edges of the removed portion do not contain cancer free cells, so I must go let the doc cut around till no more basal cells are left. Otherwise, I'd be putting myself at risk for the more harmful and invasive skin cancers. I'm ever so grateful my life is not threatened at this moment, but I don't look forward to more digging on the outside of my body. I'm still thinking through the digging I've done in this process on my insides.

Pooh in her favorite part of the fair, The Discovery Center 

Wise one near the sea lions, his favorite exhibit at the fair. 

Boodle is the subject of this prize winning photo. 

Buck by his second place prize winning photo of Boodle. 

Peace and friend talk to the animals at the fair. 

Truevyne's Purse 

What's in Truevyne's Purse?

I could never win the game from Let's Make a Deal where ladies dig in their purse when Monte Hall asks for a mirror, or a comb, bobby pin, toenail clippers, etc., and I am PROUD.
I'm not a complicated woman, so I don't want to carry a big honkin' purse full of things I might need. In fact, I don't want all the hinderances of a purse at all. I tend to be easily distracted when I go out, and am very likely to loose something I don't need to start the car. Does this have to do with shrinking brain power or the four children who scatter like colorful marbles falling from a velvet bag? Who knows which direction or how far they may roll within seconds of the van door opening.
I got my first glimpse of independence from a purse with the birth of my first child. I began to carry an L.L. Bean diaper backpack, and quickly realized I could put anything my purse contained inside the folds and under the protection of the many pockets and zippers within. This system worked for the nine years I toted diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, rash ointment, syrup of epecac, drink cups, board books, an assortment of educational toys, and cat hair. Those days ended abruptly when my last child potty trained. I was left with a large backpack (neatly embroirdered with my first child's name though this was my fourth) containing only a driver's lisence, credit card and a nice earth red shaded lipstick. About this time a friend gifted me with a small hemp and grass woven purse back from her work in Indonesia. Perfect AND cool. However, I left it on top of my car once when loading the children near where college students live and drove off into the wild blue yonder. I went back a few hours later hoping to find it, but alas, it had disappeared. I still grieve the loss of that beauty.
Fortunately, my mother in law brought back a wallet sized kangaroo skin pouch with a cute little koala painted in the middle for me from a trip to Austrailia. All my belongings fit into this with the bonus of an attached keychain. Fancy! I literally wore the kangaroo skin out of that purse. When dimes started dropping through the holes in the bottom, I carefully sewed the holes. When the threads gave out, I reluctantly had to admit even quarters were falling through and give up the ghost and the pouch altogether. Where to find another treasure like this without hopping on a plane down under?
My desparate search lead me to this brightly colored Guatamalan coin purse. I kept the hardware from the koala contraption for my keys which I attached with a leather stip. And, do you notice I hang my sunglasses through the keyring's hole? Clever girl!
This contains:
1. Twp bank cards. I can cut one up, because I just now realized I still had the old one. My purse is lighter already. FREEDOM!
2. Tennessee driver's lisence. When asked for my identification, store clerks comment regularly, "Your hair is much longer now. You almost look like a different person." Don't worry, I'll get tired of long hair and get it cut to within an inch of my skull.
3. Three vehicle insurance cards. I'm tossing the card for my old red truck. It's like driving a haunted house- a little fun but scary.
4. Books A Million discount card. A must.
5. JC Penny Christmas gift card from my dad and his wife. I still have some credit on that baby.
6. AAA card.
7. Credit Card.
8. Health insurance card.
9. Library card.
10. My vet's card.
11. Last year's teacher ID card. That goes in the trash too. Wahoo.
12. Smoothie King Frequent Buyer card. Another personal indulgence revealed.
13. My daughter's new dance teacher's card. Gonna file that instead of carry it.
14. Another library card. Ditching that.
15. Voter's registration. Don't leave home without it.
16. Vonn's Card. A grocery discount card from my trip to Santa Barabara. Won't be needing that either.
17. Loreal Earth Rose lipstick.
18. $11. Much more than I normally carry.

I think a purse or wallet reveals much about what's inside the person. So as the commercial goes, what's in your wallet?

Wishes

This morning my husband came to me as I was getting ready for the day "How do you want the day to go?" This is what he actually meant, "It's my day off. What do we have planned on our calendar?" However, I pretended not to understand. I stopped putting goo in my hair for a moment and stood in silence allowing a big smile cross over my entire face. I wondered if he'd minded my growing silly expression and just standing at our bathroom sinks with me for just a moment while I gathered my thoughts. I squinted my blurry eyes to see if he was yawning at this long pause, because I hadn't found my glasses or contacts yet. I spoke dryly, "This is going to take quite some time. Will you stand there while I tell you *everything*?"
"What?" he asks puzzled. Why don't I just tell him our schedule like he asked? Instead I let collections of wishes fall from my tongue.
"First of all, today I'd love for our children not to argue. I'd like everyone to get along and speak kindly. I don't really want to hear anyone snap, 'Gimme that back! It's mine.' 'Get away from me. You ALWAYS...'
I'd like academics of our homeschool day to be finished by noon so everyone is free to move on to desire directed learning.
I'd like our house to be much cleaner and the clutter would suddenly disappear. Poof.
I'd like time to compose a very clever blog entry.
I'd like a terrific lunch. An elaborate salad and a tasty cheeseburger. Oh, and a chocolate milkshake.
When I go to the doctor this afternoon, they will remove the mole I'm worried about being melanoma immediately, and it won't hurt at all. The doc will simply tap my aching hip and VIOLA, my hip will feel better for the first time in a month. I could even put my running shoes on and go for a nice 5K, or work on some upcoming choreography.
Peace will say, 'Thanks for sewing my flag for scouts.'
Pooh will put sounds together like never before in her reading time.
Boodle will not make anyone fuss, including me or my husband.
We will write a date on the calendar to go to the Dinosaur exhibit for Wise One.
Our meetings tonight with other families will be a blessing for everyone involved.
My husband will sing to me.
Two friends I love dearly would reconcile after years of strife between them.
I'd like to hear a news report that every single person has been successfully reunited with loved ones lost in the hurricane.
Is peace on earth okay to wish for here?
How about just for Iraq to embrace democracy today and the soldiers could all come home tonight and hold their children in their arms and passionately kiss their wives? or husbands?


I don't feel finished yet, but perhaps we could begin our morning, and I can add to the list as more things come to me? Would that be alright? And, by the way, how would YOU like today to go?"

Good Friends, Good Food, Good Stories

Svet, Helen, and I and our zillion children got together at Helen and Clay's Crab Fest 2005. One of the many things I like best about our get togethers are late night talks over a little too much wine and chocolate chip cookies. I am not a big drinker, so when Buck talked to Clay, Clay said he had my half a glass of wine all ready. Isn't that sad? Clay has quite the growing wine collection, and the most I could consume without falling into a coma is a measly half a glass. The last bottle of three bottles of wine I've bought in 2005 still sits unopened.
Anyway, Svet told two stories which I must blog.

The first is about Bary entering the women's rest room at a Barnes and Noble in NYC. Though utterly clueless, he was so convinced he had chosen the correct bathroom, he raised his voice to an unsuspecting woman who chanced meander in while he wisely inspected stalls for utmost cleanliness, "Get out of here. I WILL call security if you don't leave the men's room at once. Criminy!" She, fearing perhaps she'd met an angry postal worker or mentally unstable person off his meds, became visibly upset and rushed out. The flustered woman may have been heading to find security herself. While occupied inside his tidy stall, the clouds of his brain began to part as he heard other WOMEN'S voices just beyond his thin steel door. What on earth was he to do? In one second, entire tragic scenarios flashed like lightening through his mind. Bary had just applied for a new job, he was certain this incident would appear promptly on his police record. He envisioned the front page of the NY Times headlined with "Barnes and Noble Prosecutes Seemingly Mild Mannered Editor". He imagines interviews with his embarrassed mother on Dateline, "He's always been a GOOD boy. I just don't know what happened. We tried to raise him right." Bary stands, zips, and otherwise readies himself to quickly flee this horrid place which he had entered with such unswerving confidence. When the last female voice trails after a closing door, he bolts. In great haste, Bary grabs Svet's arm and drags her unwilling self to the door, "But Bary, I haven't made my purchases yet." She notices his severe red face, heaving breaths, the tightness of his death grip on her arm. She decides to buy her Russian Journals at another time.

The second story:
Svetlana's mother is one of a kind. I've never met a mother, Sonya, more vigilant (perhaps "hell bent" is a wee too strong of a description though I'm not certain) about proper nutrition for her daughters. Svet and her sister were, under no circumstances, permitted to ingest sugar. Perhaps this explains why Svet and I used all the grocery money my mother gave me on Cookies and Cream Icecream and Twinkies the week our senior year she stayed with me while my parents went on a vacation to Hawaii without me. I shared a little story I'd read with Svet and Helen about a child whose mother served bran muffins made with honey, no frosting of course, complete with a lit candle in stuck in the center at her school birthday party. In the snapshot of the blessed celebration, the child was crying.
Svet broke out into unbridled laughter at this little narrative. Once she recovered, she shared a story with Helen and I about her mother's (Sonya) visit with Svet in NYC. One morning of her mother's visit, Sonya desired nothing more than to come to Svet's university library and get to know each and every other librarian and clerk by name. Sonya is extremely gregarious, not to mention interested in the everyday details of Svetlana's ordinary life. Svet thought of a better of this and announced, "We can have lunch together outside in the fresh air instead." Sonya took the hint and thoughtfully replied, "Alright then. I'll bring you some lunch around noon." Svet hadn't had time for breakfast in her hurry to work that morning, and she was grateful for the kind offer. Sonya is an adventuresome type too, and Svet longingly thought of all the interesting shops from which her mother might select their cuisine. There are Indian places with curried chicken and veggies, authentic German bratwurst vendors, fine French delis with delicious cheese and meat sandwiches to choose from all along the streets of the Big Apple.
By noon, Svet felt famished, her mouth watering as she plunged down the library steps out the sliding glass doors, down the cement sidewalk to the stone tables under the trees. "I can't wait for you to taste this" her mother beams from a bench. Svet's face showed visible concern when her mother, otherwise empty handed, pushed a covered white Styrofoam cup with a straw standing like a soldier at attention on top toward Svet's hungry self. "Where's my lunch, Ma?"
"Why, this IS your lunch. It's a carrot smoothie! They've sweetened it with beet juice. Doesn't that sound simply MARVELOUS?"
Svet musters all the courage within her withered and sadly disappointed spirit to speak in a dead pan voice, "Great, Ma. Great." Svet is half sobbing and half knee-slappin' laughing telling the details of this moment. Suddenly, I feel secret unspoken gratitude for my own mother, who would rather die than drink carrots and beets.

Crab Fest 2005 ended with luscious Alaskan crab legs, Maryland Old Bay seasoned whole crabs,
corn on the cob, new potatoes, other homemade salads, and too many delectable desserts to mention. Thank you, Helen and Clay for setting the stage for such a grand weekend. That is, if you ever read my blog again.

The Buzz

So far I haven't blogged my thoughts on Hurricane Katrina. I don't have any profound things to say about such tradgedy, heroism, survival, death, and destruction. I'm asking myself the question everyone else is asking, "What can I do to ease these burdens?" I've eavesdropped on a terribly uncomfortable conversation in the upscale nail salon (yes, I admit to the sin of vanity here) where one woman shouted to another over surreal and entirely too loud tango music, "Why are they (hurricane refugees) coming here to Knoxville? Why can't they just stay in Louisiana in another town till their's get fixed?" Translation: "I don't want a bunch of poor people scrounging in my neck of the woods." It seemed completely unreasonable for me to shout over their shouts and the bizarre music my thoughts on compassion and doing our part to relieve suffering.
The church where my children play soccer began hosting 250 refugees yesterday. Knoxville has no public transportation to speak of and the city is laid out in such a way that walkers are in grave danger, so these folks may be bored to tears. Children's soccer games may offer a break in the monotony of sharing living space with far too many families. My dear husband hopes the coaches will invite children to join us. My first response was not so charitable. As a mother who lets even her 4 year old wander freely around the outskirts of several fields, I thought of how I will need to keep a tight reign on four children who haven't been tethered in this familiar location before. Don't get me wrong, I welcome these people. I look at this as an opportunity to share homemade cookies and swap stories with new guests to our community. I'll just do so with Pooh Bear on my lap. Maybe the cookies will make her happy too.



Now I'll step up onto my soapbox for just a moment.

Through heresay, I heard about an NPR commentary which suggested evolution was demonstrated over intelligent design theory, because no intelligent designer would create such a horrible thing as a hurricane. I disagreed instantly, because it seemed to me the commentator had lost "the big picture"and was looking only through a humancentric lense. What does a hurricane stir up? A hurricane replenishes entire ecosystems. Though immediate life suffers, the soil and waters fill with rich nutrients and bring back balance to the earth after long periods of depletion. Who are we as humans to reroute the waters of the Delta to suit ourselves? Poorly designed flood walls were built to keep water out of a city where it was destined to flow at such times. The water and storms clearly have thunderously spoken that their purposes have been thwarted by us. I hope we listen more closely to intelligent design when the city of New Orleans is rebuilt. It seems humans had tuned out these voices and suffered for it.

Stepping down from my soap box now and avoiding lightning bolts that may strike me when I use paper plates for lunch today.

Gentle Wind

It took us a few days to figure out that the blazing fury of summer has passed, and the cool breeze of fall has begun. I've been clueless to a change in the weather here in TN. I stepped outside in the evening and it felt cooler outside than in. So last night we opened windows around the house and turned off the air conditioning for the first time in a while. Now the homemade curtains made from antique fabric flap in a gentle wind into my bedroom. I haven't been crazy about parting the curtains in my room, since I've been home from Santa Barabara for weeks and my yard transformed into a jungle of gnarly weeds choking the remaining flowers in hardly discernable beds. I don't just have a simple yard, because I live on several acres. I "keep" about 2 1/2 acres of the land. The rest of the land gets an occasional haircut but is mostly wild. I used quotation marks for "keep", because up until this week, the "kept" part looked like the yard of the lawn of your worst neighbor. The one who has weeds growing up through the doghouse though the dog died 14 years before. The embarrassing neighbor everyone whispers should hire a lawn service, but is too cheap to have his broken down car towed out of the driveway.
I have to say I am not this kind of neighbor, because no one really knows there is in fact a house down the long country road beyond our black mailbox. Noone knows or cares about my neglected lawncare habits. I forbade my husband to plant flowers and pull the weeds around that mailbox last year, because I would rather remain uninviting from the road. I'd rather do the inviting myself than have a spiffy mailbox do so for me. In the two years we've lived here, only a few uninvited guests have mosied down our gravel path. The first were two very sweaty and beautiful Jehovah Witness girls looking for converts and putting Watchtower in people's hands. I was busy getting my four children all spruced up for a wedding, and I ran around with tights in one hand for my girl and rifling through boxes for dress shoes to fit three growing boys with the other when they rang the doorbell. The young women looked incredibly tired, and I asked if they didn't mind being somewhat unattended while I scrubbed faces, they could rest on my couch and have a cup of cold water. They expressed gratitude and accepted my offer. The ladies and I talked about one another's faith while I wrestled my daughter into the white sheaths of hose and buckled patent leather mary janes. I have a solid base of belief, and I never mind an interesting yet opposing theological discussion. As I simultaneously shuffled my children off to the van and the ladies to the door, I invited the girls to come chat again. However, I couldn't promise them it would ever be any less hectic. I've never seen them again. Maybe the girls made a secret JW mark on the door post which says, "We already tried. Move on to the next house."
The most unwelcome visitor we've had bang on our door was Mr. Ritchie. A piece of his land meets ours in a far off corner acre. Our first unpleasant encounter with him came when trying to return a dog to him the first month we moved here. The day he parked outside my window, Peace answered the door before I got there, and Mr. Ritchie was quizzing my son in an unkind tone, "Go get your cat!" Peace obediently passed by me to obtain Patches when I asked with a slightly annoyed tone because the way he had spoken to my son, "What is this about?" Peace returned with Patches quickly, and Mr. Ritchie gruffly spoke, "That ain't my cat. I thought you was hiding my cat in your house. It's gone missing and has a terrible bladder surgery that makes it pee all over the house." He turned on heel, climbed into his truck and drove off. I thought of yelling a sarcastic, "Great to see you too! Come again when you have time for some iced tea." I also thought of some select words to shout regarding his cat, but I wisely kept this all to myself. Can anyone explain why I would WANT to hide a cat who urinates all over the inside my house? I'd have to be completely insane to look for ways to bother this man. From that day on, he sometimes shoots his gun when my children play too close to his land in the woods which eventually connect to his property.
I don't mind parting my bedroom curtains today. I've lead a search and recovery team to seek out my yard. I have a blister on my finger to prove I've pulled one too many weeds lately, and the grass is mowed for the time being. Mowing took a few days because my dear husband couldn't locate the key. He had to pick one up at Sears, a 45 minute haul away from home. The next day, the mower wouldn't start and needed a battery charge. The following day, I mowed till my hands vibrated, rump was sore of the seat, and sunburn consumed the tops of my thighs. The cool and gentle breeze smells like a mix of coming fall and freshly cut grass. I finally threw away the offensive dead brown wave petunia which hung on the front porch which I saw at first glance with my head rested on my pillow. Things look like they are coming together...
Our giant fur ball of a dog came in today from the field having been sprayed by a skunk again. His baths take over an hour. Maybe everything isn't quite together.

To be a child...

We met Svetlana (she chose her own name for my blog) and her husband Baryshnikov, one great dancer, and their daughter Anna at the lake yesterday. The family had to cancel vacation plans to the South Carolina due to the crazy gas shortage. The hotel clerk where they planned to stay advised them to stay home, because they might not be able to find gas after this weekend.
Svetlana, in her good humor, suggested we meet at the lake and tell her 4-year-old it was South Carolina. "She's not THAT clever yet. I think we can fool her." I suggested Anna would remember the lake from our previous trips there together, but Svetlana persuaded me otherwise. My sons asked as we got out of the van, "What is the name of the state we are supposed to be in now?" They were definitely in on the scheme. "Anna, was this a loonnnggg drive for you?"
After a swim at the beach and swinging on the playground, we headed to my house for a feast: pot roast, potatoes, gravy, homemade bread, corn on the cob. Svetlana brought liver pate' and a blue cheese crumble salad. Yum! Of course, the food is always good in South Carolina.
Towards the end of dinner, Svet and Bary surveyed Anna's plate which had quite a bit of food upon it. "Eat one bite of potato, salad, and bread, and you may be finished." Having four children and not being an especially good parent, I do not survey my children's plates at all. However, I decided to put on a good show and say to my four year old girl "Pooh Bear, you take one bite of salad and bread too." Pooh Bear thinks this is funny and decides to go along with my sherade by chomping down the remains of some of her dinner.
Svetlana mentions how she'd like to be a child again, "Please beg and plead with me to eat. Read books to me all day long, and let me nap!" She changes her voice a little and calls, "I'd like to turn a few cartwheels in the living room before I have to eat." Yes, I'd like to be a child again too. And I'd like Svet to live next door, because she has always made me laugh so hard my insides hurt. I've know her since seventh grade. She was my IPS lab partner.
After dinner, my boys, with about a thousand prompts, cleared the table. Baryshnikov and I washed up the dishes while Svetlana gave our girls a bath. Pooh Bear emerged scrubbed completely pink by my contientious friend. Me, I put soap on the top of Pooh's head, hand her a soap filled scrunchy, and hope for the best when it's bathtime. Last night, Pooh Bear appeared to sparkle after this particular bath. Isn't the best smell in the entire world a damp, gorgeous little girl with lingering baby soap on her skin and folded up in one's arms in a fresh towel? Pooh picked out some jammies from her stuffed drawer for Anna, whose jammies she brought were unsuitable. A wet towel from swimming had soaked them. I simply don't understand how girls are so flexible. When my boys were around four year old, I had to hog tie their legs and hands, wrestle them out of their favorite stained shark shirt and the only pants they would wear with a lego embroidered on the leg, and plunged them into the tub before they noticed I'd run the bath water. The girls change clothes by the hour and ask for baths.
The evening grew late with laughter, and I hated to see Svet, Anna, and Bary leave. It was 10 p.m., and they had an almost hour drive home ahead of them. Anna was none the wiser that she is really still in Tennessee. She surely conked out in the car before the family car made it out of my long driveway. She probably dreamed about her terrific day in make believe South Carolina.