maybe a little faith would do me good

Private Property

2011-09-19T17:11:00.004-05:00

When I was nine years old, my mother cleaned her closet, culling her wardrobe in the process. Mama is a tiny woman and weighed barely a hundred pounds at the time. Me, well, I’m not so tiny. My father is 6 feet, 2 inches tall, a big-boned farmer with a thick, strong body. I’m somewhere in between. I’m sure they were probably still too big, especially through the chest, but I selected several of my mother’s old shirts to add to my own closet. My favorite was a navy blue cotton number with three-quarter sleeves, a Peter Pan collar, and a row of shiny blue buttons up the front.

I wore it to school soon after. I remember almost nothing at all about that day. It was neither warm nor cool, although I do remember it was sunny. It must have been after lunch because my nearly fatal embarrassment took place as we filed out the front door, across the large expanse of cement in front of the school building and down the sidewalk to the playground in back. I heard a laugh, then another, and what I can only describe as a guffaw. I realized almost immediately the laughing was directed at me. I felt air across my chest, and to my infinite horror, when I looked down I saw skin. Bare skin. My blouse was losing buttons.

We’ve all felt exposed, whether literally or figuratively, and such exposure in childhood is devastating in the moment. It’s humiliating and often lasting. Paule Constant’s novel, Private Property, describes moments such as these over and over in the life of little Tiffany Murano. From the second of her arrival at the Catholic girls’ school in southwestern France, nine-year-old Tiffany feels miserable and out of place. She misses her parents, French expatriates still living in Africa. The nuns are distant and dismissive; the other girls seem foreign and are cruel, teasing Tiffany, ignoring her, shutting her out of their conversations, their play, and their world. Having spent her life until now in Africa renders Tiffany an outsider.

Although Tiffany internalizes the rhythms and routines of the school, she never really sheds her alien status. She moves through her days detached and observant, longing for companionship but misunderstanding the social order so completely that every effort she makes disintegrates into a mortifying blunder. In one painful episode, she goes through the motions of befriending Cathy even though she is told outright she’ll be dropped like a stone the second a popular girl looks Cathy’s way. When the inevitable happens, Tiffany is more upset about her undone, unkempt hair than the departure of her false friend. Tiffany simply watches as the years pass her by. Soon she is thirteen.

Tiffany’s only solace lies with her grandparents, the reserved grandfather and her charming, devoted, but ailing grandmother. She spends her weekends with them, first at a city boarding house, then later on traveling to the Private Property of the title. The big house sits among orchards of apple, plum and hazelnut trees, looking over the picturesque village below, flanked by its own farm complete with livestock, and backed by an imposing range of mountains. Every joyful experience, every peaceful moment, and the only sense of belonging left to her are embodied in the beloved grandmother, the grandfather, and the Property.

Constant’s prose, even in translation, flows gracefully. She is at her lyrical best during the last third of the novel, moving between the school and the Property, between Tiffany’s resignation and her happiness, using only the quality and essence of her language to communicate the acute, turbulent changes. When Tiffany’s grandmother dies after a long, unspecified illness, the girl’s world is shattered. Constant renders her mourning and utter confusion in language so raw, so palpable, it makes the heart ache. Tiffany disintegrates back at school, lying awake at night, her head spinning her lesson’s facts into a kind of emotional armor. We are witness to the imminent fracture, helplessly watch her hurtling toward disgrace.

After finishing Private Property, my mind wandered over my own school years, marking embarrassments, remembering slights, rifling bittersweet memories. I relived a bit of that evening after the buttons fell from my shirt. I picked the buttons up, put them in my pocket, took them home. But with the dark shirt and buttons in hand, I went to the trash can instead of asking my mother to sew them back onto the shirt. I didn’t want to be reminded. Constant draws Tiffany in clear, stark relief, creating a character who throws shadows so large they cover you up and remind you for days.

A Hell of Their Own Design

2011-09-06T08:59:00.003-05:00

The people populating the small towns and backwoods of southern Indiana meet with grisly ends throughout Frank Bill’s short stories. Simple shootings just won’t do for these twisted, nasty characters. A blade slices through both of a man’s eyes, a man lassos and hangs his father-in-law at his wife’s behest, silent dogs bite their way from a bulging calf to a vulnerable throat, and then, there are the flames: a barn of dead dogs set afire, homemade bombs exploding and burning the attacker instead of the target, a lit cigarette flicked into a circle of gasoline. Crimes in Southern Indiana: Stories overflows with senseless violence alongside righteous, brutal vengeance.

Men, women and children wind in and out of these stories linked and rooted by place. Families take shape from one story to the next, an often gruesome shape, melding into the fabric of the action or serving as a backdrop, a connection, or an explanation of the deep mysteries of human motivation. The tone is pessimistic and sardonic. “The only time life is easy is childhood, but by the time a person realizes this, it’s too damn late.”

Bill paints his law enforcement with the same dark pigment used for his criminals. Even the good guys exhibit flaws, bad behavior, and judgment tainted by personal interest or annihilated by tragedy. Ordinary people fall victim to their vices. Innocence is shattered for no conceivable reason. Children commit violence, are raped and killed. Lives ruined in an instant. Everyone is fair game. It is the rare man who emerges on the other side and no one gets away clean.

The transgressions accumulate like crappie on a fish stringer, so fast that you lose count. In Trespassing Between Heaven and Hell, the breach lays not so heavily in the act as in the cover-up, but once events are set into motion, sin piles upon convenient sin, complicated by the relationship of brothers and the wrecked psyche of a man incapable of leaving war wounds behind him. Already broken people shatter beyond repair.

The aftermath of war figures into The Old Mechanic as well. Perhaps the most compelling story in the collection, the narrative is told from the point of view of an adolescent boy meeting his grandfather for the first time. The boy grew up hearing savage accounts of the man’s behavior. Despite his mother’s misgivings and his own searing fear, the boy goes off alone with the man. The simple words than run through the boy’s head while he accompanies his grandfather to a gun show, to dinner and finally to the old man’s home, elucidate a mixture of repulsion and curiosity, clearly illuminating the irresistible pull of blood and history. In the end, pervasive guilt wracks the grandfather’s existence with hope of only the merest hint of redemption.

The Penance of Scoot McCutcheon is a love story. It's the accounting of an ordinary home and a happy marriage, told by a doting husband. A young wife described in tender, intimate detail. But it is a love story of the dead and the dying, told in retrospect and tinged with regret. It is the least violent tale here, the crime secondary to an emotionally devastating centerpiece. Haunted by his own actions, a man in perpetual disguise runs from himself for years before surrendering to reckon for his sin, making peace with his own conscience but unable to shake his staggering guilt.

This story collection is an astonishing debut. Bill peppers his writing with generous description, some perfectly rendered, some slightly distracting. Hair and eyes “stained like a walnut”, “flesh giftwrapping bone”, or “Frail would describe her as muscular,” evoke just the right image. Even the few less successful passages bring a definite vision into the mind. Inducing and conveying raw emotion seems almost effortless for Bill, particularly in the case of men in love with their women. The stories race along, visceral, strong, and stunning, transporting the reader into a dirty, dangerous world of drugs, alcohol, incessant violence, and the terminal pastimes of decaying rural life. These people of southern Indiana inhabit an unrelenting hell made up partially of circumstance but primarily crafted from their own design.

Ted and Ginger and Dianne

2011-07-31T17:06:00.017-05:00

My grandfather served on the USS Salute in 1945. That year, on June 8^th, she sank, broken in two pieces after striking a mine in pre-invasion activities off Brunei Bay. Each year since 1985, the sailors of the Salute meet during the week of that anniversary. They bring their families, exchange tall tales, and tell the stories of their childhood and their service to a historical volunteer. The last couple of years the interviews were filmed. We sit in the meeting room and watch the stories unfold, each the same and each quite different. As the years pass, the men age and are slowly lost to sickness or to time.

For the last couple of years, they held the reunions here in Oklahoma. I’ve been close and lucky enough to attend. This year we all traveled to Bartlesville, an oil-boom town in the northeastern part of the state. My grandfather and my mother grew up there, my father and I just across the county line to the east. It’s familiar country, a place sprung from Delaware and Cherokee Indians, hard-scrabble pioneers, back-breaking work and the bounty of a part of the state deemed “Green Country”.

I’ve never been close to my grandfather. Ted is a small, handsome man who’s led a hard life, mostly by his own choice. When he tells stories of the war, he speaks of women he chased through California where he was stationed, the buddies who accompanied him, and his repeated instances of being absent without leave, which he casually refers to as “jumping ship”. His first wife, my grandmother, was Californian by way of Illinois. Ginger, as she was called, caught rheumatic fever as an adolescent. Her heart badly damaged, her parents moved the entire family out west for the sunshine and the clean air. That’s where they met. He tried to marry her when she was just seventeen, but her father blocked the union. Ted went to war. Ginger waited.

When the Salute sank, my grandfather sustained a head injury, spent about two weeks unconscious, and woke up state side. With his medical discharge in process and a keen sense of his own mortality, he picked Ginger up, took her to Arizona and married her there. Ginger stood four feet, eleven inches with blonde hair, pale skin, and light eyes, a lovely, tiny young woman. My mother was born in California in April of 1946. By May of 1949, Ginger’s rheumatic heart failed. She died at the age of twenty-two leaving behind her husband and a three-year-old daughter.

My grandfather quickly remarried a woman who preferred to pretend his first wife did not exist. I know very little about Ginger, only hearing how my grandparents met for the first time last year, after the second wife died. Ginger is a cipher, a beautiful face in a black-and-white photograph, an almost entirely unknown quantity.

My daughter, at twenty, stands about five feet, two inches tall, with blonde hair, luminous pale skin, and hazel-green eyes. She is a lovely, tiny young woman. In the hotel this past June, as the reunion group lingered over breakfast, my daughter came to visit. I was upstairs in my room, still preparing for the day, so she went down to the lobby with the old sailors and their families. My mother asked my daughter questions about college and my daughter, an animated student of theater and French, began telling stories. My grandfather watched her with obvious delight. When I came into the room a bit later, she rose to hug me and the conversation lulled. My mother overheard my grandfather say to the sailor next to him, with a smile on his face, “She reminds me of my first wife.”

My daughter, unbeknownst to her, gave my mother a precious gift that day: an idea of what her mother may have been like. It’s a sweet and precious debt, one that will never be repaid.

Dianne at Sixteen

2011-04-04T19:57:00.003-05:00

lost on our first night in Paris
she stayed calm, ordered crepes
smeared with coconut and nutella
then later on strolling Montmartre
bought fingerless gloves,
and a blue hat with a tassel
skipped the Eiffel Tower
and a float down the Seine
but couldn't miss Père Lachaise
or the museum of Salvador Dali
passed up the catacombs
to shop at Galeries Lafayette
and look down on the Palais Garnier

gone

2011-04-03T18:43:00.003-05:00

liquid existence
slips cooly into oblivion
leaving no trace
of the mossy
platinum velvet
ashy palette
painted
by my body
my presence
my love

wish you were here

2011-04-02T22:50:00.002-05:00

thirty-one degrees below zero
ten days on it's seventy-two
hail and winds, straight or tornado
tree-breaking ice
eighteen inches of snow
over a hundred twenty days in a row
welcome to Oklahoma

beginnings

2011-04-01T21:42:00.003-05:00

my hiding place
stood silent
I climbed up
sat in the fork of two limbs
reached for blue sky
in our old oak tree

a purple cover
adorned with sisters
vivid sunlight through branches
wind honeysuckle sweet
a sparrow alights up high
she sings to me

Jo high in her garret
me on a leafy perch
an apple each and some ink
a jumble of words
tears on the page
wondering just how things will be

for whatever it's worth

2011-03-10T13:33:00.007-06:00

I published a little piece of writing. A little piece of writing about someone else's big piece of writing. About their brilliant, important piece of writing that boasts hard covers and a dust jacket. A lovely, real book filled with beautiful, sublime art which I never even bothered to mention. I wrote 715 words reacting to someone else's luminous, difficult, gorgeous, almost tragic life story.

It is unbelievable really. Astounding. I have clicked that link at least a dozen times. My name in cyberspace. Not the name I sent them, but still...it's my name.

I sent the review to the managing editor on January 18th. By the time I received a message telling me he loved it, the review had already been posted for a day and a half. Had I bothered to look, I would have seen it sitting there, right on my hated Google Reader page. But no, I did not look at all on March 7, 2011.

Until I received the news, I had been writing. Stories. A little journaling. A bit of poetry I used to destroy a perfectly good piece of paper (thank you, Betsy Lerner).

Yesterday I managed to write a journal entry. About the review, of course. Then I worked for an hour on a story about a boy, his sister, the big oak tree in the back yard and what happened there one sunny, bright day. There wasn't a word I deemed worthy of keeping. So I deleted it all and promptly left the house with my children for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory.

I'll write again. I know I will. But I can't help looking at that damned review and wondering if I will ever publish another thing. Nearly every word I choose seems wrong or repetitive, every adjective superfluous, every verb weak. I am, for the most part, okay with my nouns. Maybe. Well, not all of them.

Is this a crisis of confidence? Crippling fear that from now forward someone will actually read the words I write? Worry that the editor hasn't gotten back to me because he changed his mind about wanting to review more of my work?

Whatever it is, maybe it's on its way out the door. After all, I am getting ready to hit "publish" on this blog post. Maybe. I think.

Hmmm...

2010-07-13T17:29:00.003-05:00

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

After trying this with a post I wrote a while back, I decided to try two or three more posts. The results of the different writing samples were: Vladimir Nabokov, Stephen King, and James Fenimore Cooper. Apparently, I have a split personality as a writer.

a bit more poetry

2010-07-07T21:50:00.005-05:00

Much of the poetry I've been writing is raw, emotional, and not really fit for public consumption. The class focuses on the telling of personal stories through poetry. There are two I think I can share here. Both were written during the course of the class and have been whittled and reworked and thought half to death. This one turned out lovely, I think, and brings back sweet, precious memories.

wisdom

he told me once he couldn't claim to know
the meaning of life but he thought it involves
finding someone who makes happiness real

he told me once he had little idea
if there truly is a God, but he thought
the best evidence is in my dark eyes

he told me once I should live for today
concentrate on being in this moment
because nothing lasts, time erases memory

*******************************************************************

The memory this poem is based upon is an old one. Even so, the finished poem seems immediate to me, as well as just a bit ugly, just a bit violent.

Seeking Control

She never could stand secrets
tried to strip them from my mind
with tricks, bribes, pointed questions,
searching for answers I wouldn't spill

She crept into my room
dumped my purse on the bed
violated my privacy
as easily as she smiled

writing poetry

2010-06-10T07:56:00.006-05:00

I began a poetry class this week. Like everyone else, I wrote the requisite haiku and rhyming verse in school, but I've never made a serious attempt at writing my own poetry. I've been reading lovely books by people like Lucille Clifton, Robert Bly, Ted Kooser, Dorianne Laux, and Marie Howe. Our first assignment was to write a piece about the way that poetry came into our lives. The first poem I remember really affecting me in an emotional way is a short piece, long since committed to memory.

The Amulet

Your picture smiles as first it smiled,
The ring you gave is still the same,
Your letter tells, O changing child,
No tidings since it came.

Give me an amulet
That keeps intelligence with you
Red when you love, and rosier red,
And when you love not,
Pale and blue.

Alas, that neither bonds nor vows
Can certify possession;
Torments me still the fear that love
Died in its last expression.

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I thought about the day I first read this poem and how I came to own the book of Emerson's poetry. It is odd what comes back to you holding an old book in your hands.

"The Early Poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson", Copyright 1900

Mother filled my late childhood
With auctions and farm sales.
She drove miles and spent long hours
Eating cheap barbeque sandwiches
While bidding a few dollars on boxes
Packed with someone else's life.

One hot June day under a Redbud,
She picked among the tables and the piles.
I dragged along bored behind her
Until I saw a box of books near the house.
They smelled of leather and age,
My idea of heaven.

In the corner, covered in brick red linen,
I saw a volume not much larger than my hand.
I was seventeen, immersed in unrequited love.
I opened the linen cover, looked on yellowed pages,
and as I read "The Amulet",
Poetry spoke to me.

Home Sweet Nowata

2010-03-30T09:08:00.008-05:00

I spent the better part of an hour talking to an old hometown friend on the phone this morning. While our conversation touched on home only peripherally, it started me thinking about my recent near-obsession with all things Nowata. I’ve had lunch recently with a couple of schoolmates, ornery boys who’ve turned into wonderful men. I’ve been thinking of Nowata often in the past few months. Perhaps it’s the upcoming all-school reunion and all of those pictures I’ve been uploading from old yearbooks and from inside an old metal box I’ve had since middle school. Maybe it's following what's going on with the children of old friends who live around Nowata, seeing pictures of them going to spring dances, FFA events, showing animals in the spring livestock show, or playing baseball in the frigid Oklahoma spring. Perhaps it’s the contact with so many old friends from home since I joined Facebook last summer to keep up with my lovely daughter as she attends college. I could blame it on Joan-Marie and her lovely descriptions of life in small-town Oklahoma. But honestly, I think I am simply homesick.

Just look at the countryside. Why wouldn't I be homesick for lovely Green Country? There is nothing prettier to my eyes than a pond in a cow pasture when the grass and the trees are lovely and green. Part of what draws me is knowing that underneath that beautiful grass and on the edges of that pond, the dirt is a lovely, rich, dark color. Not red. Dirt, my friends, should not be red.

Lovely old buildings in Nowata are more than just lovely old buildings to me. So many memories float into my consciousness from looking at this picture of the courthouse. My great-grandmother lived down that street to the north when I was in elementary school, right next to Sheila Stinnett, my life-long friend and distant relative. There was an organ in Grandma Bonnie's formal living room that she played by ear and a cellar that I spent many an hour in during the spring, staring at a bare bulb, jars of home-canned fruits, vegetables, pickles and preserves, and listening to an old transistor radio for the all-clear. I obtained my first marriage license in the courthouse after Anita Folk drew my blood out at the hospital, the only woman I've ever known who could do so without bruising or hurting me. Mrs. Folk also happened to be the make-up artist from the dance recitals of my youth and the mother of my old classmate, Dee Ann. Free association leads me to thoughts of Miss Vicki, dance classes in the basements of the Savoy, and Noweta Lodge, a summer writing course with Joyce Hifler in one of the high school annex buildings, and my 1974 red-and-white Chevy pick-up, the one with a 454, chrome running boards, dual wheels, and a chrome cow catcher on the front. I wish I had a photo of that truck. All that from a picture of the county courthouse.

There's nothing prettier than Nowata County in spring. Other seasons have their pleasures, but for me, spring has always been Nowata's best season. Warm days, cool nights, vegetation turning green, the gallardia, butterfly peas, and coneflowers blooming in pastures and alongside the roads, and the daffodils, forsythia, and lilacs blooming in the well-manicured town lawns. Nothing prettier.

I've been thinking about taking a drive north, an hour past Tulsa up Highway 169. There are people I'd love to see, but the main draw this time of year, for me, is the natural beauty of the place where I spent my childhood. There is just something about that little town that's always gotten under my skin. I said to a friend recently that you can't really ever go home again. And I suppose in some ways that's true. But if I ever loved a place and thought of it my whole life through as home, it's a little town called Nowata. It is, simply, home.

*Pictures are all Google images. Really. I just searched Google Images for "Nowata County". Try it. There are pictures of the bowling ball art, the motel signs, Ironman sports, and Main Street. It's kind of awesome.

Good Luck for the New Year, Southern Style

2009-12-30T12:02:00.000-06:00

As we approach the end of the year and the end of the holiday season, I always reach for one certain pantry staple.

If you grew up in the South or your family has Southern roots, you probably know that black eyed peas are considered lucky in this region of the country. People serve them on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day in many different ways. My mother used to make black eyed peas with ham and serve them with cornbread. My Southern grandmother served Hoppin' John with hush puppies.

According to my family, black eyed peas should be the first thing you eat as the year changes and we leave behind the old to take up the new, which is the reason I always serve them New Year's Eve. I have made my mother's recipe and my grandmother's recipe. My children would never eat them, not even a bite. Come to think of it, I didn't eat them readily as a child, either. I experimented to find a way to prepare black eyed peas that my children might enjoy. For the last five or six years, this recipe has been a staple of our New Year's Eve celebration:

Black Eyed Pea Salsa

olive oil

1 cup chopped onion

1/2 cup chopped ham

2 cloves garlic, minced

1/4 teaspoon ground cumin

1/4 teaspoon pepper

1 15 ounce can black-eyed peas, drained

1 14 1/2 ounce can diced tomatoes, undrained

1/3 cup minced fresh cilantro

1 tablespoon seeded, finely chopped jalapeno pepper

Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onion, ham, and garlic. Saute until onions are tender, about five minutes. Stir in cumin and next three ingredients; bring to a boil. Remove from heat and stir in cilantro and jalapeno. Spoon salsa into a bowl; cover and chill one to eight hours.

Serve at room temperature with pork or chicken or as a dip with crusty French bread or tortilla chips. Yields about 3 1/2 cups.

Those of you who have recently indulged yourselves (you know who you are) will be happy to know this is a healthy, filling treat. Plus it's tasty and lucky to boot.

Happy New Year to you and yours!

already longing for spring

2009-11-04T10:00:00.001-06:00

The last roses of the season bloom in the autumn air. The dogs run in the back yard, barking their little fool heads off at a squirrel, a bird, the neighbors' dogs, or perhaps a passing pedestrian. The mornings are cool, the afternoons warm, and the nights clear and cold.

Autumn always incites a bit of longing in me. While I enjoy the cooler weather, the shortened days do not agree with me, the bleak winter looms, and my beautiful vegetation begins to succumb to the cool of the night. Already, I've lost my clematis, the lantana, the candymint, and the prairie daisies. The cool crept up quietly, gradually and nearly unnoticed, and I think my gardenia bloomed its last this summer.

From November to February, I live for the spring. Christmas hasn't held much excitement for me since the days of my youth. As an adult, the holidays are too often spoiled by the rushing, the tension, and the hassle. As I woke this morning, I heard birdsong in the back yard through the window above the bed. In the dawning morning, the sound of the bird singing sweetly filled my head with visions of greening grass and blooming flowers. Only upon full awakening did I remember the date.

But the promise of the coming spring, so near and yet still distant, will sustain me through the dark months, keep me hoping and longing for the new life that will surely greet me there. I'll pass the winter reading, planning, and yearning for the moment the crocus peeks through the cold January ground, a harbinger of the delicious spring joy only weeks away.

I'd never make it in Minnesota.

pumpkins, cats, bats and ghosties

2009-10-30T09:03:00.005-05:00

This is not a food blog, and yet...another recipe.

Perfect Sugar Cookies

a la Martha Stewart

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup sugar
1 large egg, lightly beaten
2 tablespoons brandy, or milk
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Directions

Whisk together flour, salt, and baking powder in a medium bowl. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream butter and sugar; add dry ingredients, and mix until incorporated. With mixer running, add egg, brandy (use the brandy, people, don't wimp out and use the milk), and vanilla; mix until incorporated.

Transfer dough to a work surface. Shape into 2 discs, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line baking sheets with nonstick baking mats or parchment paper; set aside.

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out dough to 1/8-inch thickness. Cut into desired shapes, and transfer to prepared baking sheets, leaving an inch in between. Leftover dough can be rolled and cut once more. Bake until lightly golden, about 10 minutes; do not allow to brown. Transfer to wire racks to cool.

Makes 2 dozen.

White Chocolate Ganache Glaze

a la Kim

2/3 cup cream

1 tablespoon Karo syrup

6 ounces white chocolate

powdered sugar, for thickening

Coarsely chop white chocolate, place in a small bowl and set aside. Combine cream (don't wimp out; this is not the time to watch your diet) and Karo syrup in a small pan. Heat over low heat until steaming. Pour over chocolate and let sit until melted. Stir to combine. Let cool. If the glaze is still a bit thin, add powdered sugar one heaping tablespoon at a time until you reach the desired consistency. I think I used about four tablespoons. I colored the glaze orange with yellow and red gel food coloring, the kind used for cake decorating.

Makes more than you'll need.

Assembly

To ice the cookies, place a wire rack on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper or silpat. Place cookies on rack. Spoon ganache over the cookies, allowing excess to drain onto cookie sheet. Let the cookies sit until the glaze is firm, dry and no longer sticky.

The glaze is much easier to use than traditional icing. I got the idea to use glaze on the cookies from the Magpie's lovely black forest cupcakes. I adapted the chocolate ganache recipe for white chocolate. The boys loved these. The husband, not so much, but he's not big on sweets. I adore them. Hence the blog post. Make them. They're worth it.

Happy Halloween!

Bob Dylan at the Brady

2009-10-25T15:58:00.004-05:00

Set List:

Gonna Change My Way of Thinking
The Man in Me
Beyond Here Lies Nothin'
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum
This Dream of You
Cold Irons Bound
Po' Boy
Honest With Me
I Feel A Change Comin' On
Highway 61 Revisted
Workingman Blues #2
Thunder on the Mountain
Ballad of a Thin Man

Encore:

Like a Rolling Stone
Jolene
All Along the Watchtower

A view of the "Old Lady on Brady" from Brady Street.

A view of the west side box office entrance from the car.

The marquee.

A single production bus on the west side, stage left. We watched the caterers load their vehicle here as we left after the concert.

Production buses on the east, about 5pm. By 7pm when the theater doors opened, they were gone.

We arrived early, parked the car in the Brady's small lot and walked to The Mexicali Border Cafe for a quick dinner before the concert. After eating, we walked the half block back to the Brady. The crowd had arrived, forming lines at both the east and west doors. To say the crowd was an eclectic mix of people is an understatement. The youngest fan, aged about eight, seemed just as excited as the oldest fan in the crowd. We saw another mother-daughter there. Just in front of us, a pair of sisters, we thought, and to our left a charming older couple who were seeing Dylan for a second time. We saw a tattooed, pierced, flamboyant couple aged around 25 in the center section enjoying the show just as much as the old-timers who were a little slow getting to their feet when the up-tempo tunes began. One young man with a head of curly hair and a pretty face clearly had his eye on our lovely daughter, though her mother's presence probably inhibited his approach.

The Brady Theater is a 1914 Western Classic Revival building with a spot on the National Register of Historic Places since 1979. It seats about 2,800 in an auditorium and balcony. The acoustics are magnificent, and there isn't a bad seat in the house. Our lovely daughter purchased tickets before sale to the general public began and our seats were quite good, one section from middle toward stage right about eight rows back and right on the aisle, just as the floor starts to rise. Whether we were standing or sitting, we had a great view of Dylan all evening.

We entered as soon as the doors opened, bought souvenirs (a sweatshirt, a t-shirt, a poster, and a keychain), and found our seats. For about 45 minutes, we watched the crowd and waited. As the auditorium filled, taped music played in the background. The stage was set and lit an ethereal blue. Right on time, the house lights went down, the stage lights darkened, and the announcer said, "...the poet laureate of rock-n-roll, the legendary Bob Dylan". As the music started, we stood, we clapped, and we yelled. The atmosphere was electric.

Dylan began strong, enthusiastic and energetic. During the set, the bulk of the audience stood, only sitting for perhaps two songs early on. Stage left on keyboards, he sang as only Dylan can, and if you weren't familiar with his lyrics, it might have been tough to identify the song. Every piece was restyled, almost unrecognizable, yet still somehow familiar. It is a testament to the man as a musician and a writer that regardless of the arrangement, the songs still impress.

The stage lights were cut between each song; the pauses were long enough to shift positions and instruments without time for anything else. Music rose, fell, and rose again in a satisfying, regular rhythm. Five musicians took the stage with Dylan, two on guitar, one on bass, one on percussion, and one on keyboards. Enough instruments for ten musicians graced the stage. Dylan sang, played keyboards and an electric harmonica (or perhaps just a miked harmonica) but never touched a guitar. The band was simply fantastic. And oh, did Dylan sing. Up front with just the harmonica and his famous throaty, scratchy voice, Dylan bobbed his head in that familiar way, smiled, danced and distinctly fed on the energy of the audience. I've often heard him described as a musician, not a performer, but I'd have to disagree. The man entranced the full-house audience without ever saying a word. When the lights when down after a spectacular Ballad of the Thin Man, I could have gone home happy.

The audience whooped, hollered, clapped and stomped to an empty, dark stage for a good five minutes. Grown men could be heard yelling "Bobby!" Someone beat the arm of a chair or a wooden column, producing a hollow, regular thump. When the band re-took the stage, the applause was deafening. Dylan introduced his band, thanked his friends in the audience, and tore into a completely unfamiliar, absolutely fabulous rendition of Like a Rolling Stone, moving seamlessly into Jolene, then racing into a fantastic All Along the Watchtower surely influenced by the Jimi Hendrix cover. The lights went down briefly, and when they came back up, Dylan stood center stage, all in black, flanked by his band in taupe suits and black shirts. After a moment, the house lights came up and the crowd went wild. Including our lovely daughter and me.

Picture notes: All of the shots here are by me except for the poster, which was lifted from the Brady Theater website. We have a shot of Dylan on stage, but it is in our lovely daughter's camera which remains, at this time, in Tulsa. Will share it later if it is any good. Cameras were not allowed inside the theater. Somehow, our little one made it inside concealed in a high-heeled cowboy boot. I'm not saying whose.

Happy, Happy Birthday Baby

2009-10-24T00:35:00.004-05:00

Today my youngest child turns eleven. He is in his last year of elementary school. Sam is a voracious reader, a good student, and an expert at video games of all kinds. He is a sweet, good-natured boy and quite sensitive. This is a hard age for kids in many ways, and one of the hardest for me to deal with as a parent. The little boy is still there, but he is beginning to grow up. Sometimes I baby him too much, and he lets me know. Other times, he needs that little bit of extra attention from his Mom. He is pulling away and coming back, advancing and retreating, in that familiar childhood dance. This is not the first time I've been a partner, but the long promenade changes with every child. I wouldn't miss a beat.

Happy birthday, sweet Samuel.

Simple Weekend Brunch

2009-10-11T14:33:00.000-05:00

Last weekend all of my children were home for a Sunday morning meal. I wanted to whip up something a bit special without leaving home, and I hadn't planned anything at all. I opened the freezer to a box of puff pastry I'd purchased for I-don't-know-what and my menu was set. Everything else in these recipes are pantry and refrigerator staples in my house.

These recipes are simple and nearly foolproof. I've made them half a dozen times each. With no more than twenty minutes of effort and the addition of a green salad, you have the makings of a home cooked brunch that appeals to everyone.

Ham and Cheese Stromboli
(adapted from Pepperidge Farm website)

Ingredients

1 sheet puff pastry, thawed
1 egg
1 tablespoon water
1/2 pound sliced cooked deli ham
1/2 pound sliced cooked deli turkey breast
1 cup shredded Vermont White Cheddar cheese (about 4 ounces)
1 tsp herbs de provence
salt
pepper

Directions

Heat the oven to 400°F. Beat the egg and water in a small bowl with a fork or whisk.Unfold the pastry sheet on a lightly floured surface. Roll the pastry sheet into a 16x12-inch rectangle. With the short side facing you, layer the ham and turkey on the bottom half of the pastry to within 1 inch of the edge. Sprinkle with the cheese. Season to taste with herbs, salt and pepper. Starting at the short side, roll up like a jelly roll. Place seam-side down onto a baking sheet. Tuck the ends under to seal. Brush with the egg mixture.Bake for 25 minutes or until the stromboli is golden brown. Remove the stromboli from the baking sheet and let cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes.

Apple Pecan Pastries

(adapted from Pepperidge Farm website)

Ingredients

1 sheet puff pastry, thawed

1 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg

1/8 teaspoon ground ginger

2 cups peeled, diced Jonagold apples

1 cup chopped pecans

1 tablespoon cold butter, cut into pieces

Confectioners' sugar

Directions

Heat the oven to 375°F. Lightly grease a baking sheet.Stir the brown sugar, flour, cinnamon and nutmeg in a medium bowl. Add the apples, pecans and butter and toss to coat.Unfold the pastry sheet on a lightly floured surface. Roll the pastry sheet into a 15 x 10-inch rectangle. Brush the pastry sheet with water. With the long side facing you, spoon the apple mixture on the pastry to within 2 inches of the long sides and to the edge of the short sides. Starting at a long side, roll up like a jelly roll. Tuck ends under to seal. Place seam-side down on baking sheet. Bake for 20 minutes or until golden. Remove from baking sheet and cool on a wire rack for about 10 minutes. Slice into serving portions. Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar.

Tip: You can substitute chopped walnuts for the pecans if you like.

Pictures from Pepperidge Farm website. These were devoured before it occurred to me to snap a photo.

the art of surrender

2009-10-07T09:44:00.006-05:00

I have been thinking about relinquishing control. A favorite blog sparked my contemplation this morning, with a post exploring the natural ebbs and flows of life and the ways one can interrupt the organic progression of life by clutching and grasping at a place in time.

I have been struggling. Life fools us into believing we are settled by falling into distinct patterns but life is simply change incarnate. The departure of our lovely daughter dramatically altered my daily ebb and flow. I talk with her, I communicate with her in writing, and I see her somewhat frequently. I know if my heart aches at her absence, I can be at her side in under an hour. Mother and daughter relationships embody complexity; her physical and emotional absence is not my struggle. I miss the challenges she added to my daily existence, the very challenges I thought would be last on my list of cherished moments.

Family time has never been orchestrated. We have always preferred a spontaneous togetherness. I began searching for reasons to draw the entire family together, whether it is a weekend meal or some type of event. Before this school year, if I prepared a simple meal, set the table, and called to everyone in the evening, family fellowship happened instantaneously. Now I find myself purchasing tickets to see Bob Dylan at the Brady as much for the 90 minute drive as for the concert.

This morning my thoughts ambled along until they lit on Countee Cullen (pictured).

If You Should Go

Love, leave me like the light,

The gently passing day,

We would not know but for the night

When it has slipped away.

Go quietly; a dream

When done should leave no trace

That it has lived, except a gleam

Across the dreamer's face.

Learning to let go, to release that emotional grip, comes naturally through parenting, sometimes leaping, sometimes retreating, sometimes limping along. Slowly, oh so slowly, I am clutching less and yielding more, aiming to walk rather than crawl toward finding peace.

October in Oklahoma

2009-10-02T16:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday dawned bright and beautiful, with mostly clear skies and a light, cool breeze. It was the perfect day for a drive. On Old Route 66 driving from Edmond to Arcadia, you can escape from suburbia into the rural countryside of Oklahoma County. Ten minutes after leaving the city limits, there is scant evidence of the urban center mere miles away. The public perception of the land here tends toward flat, but the truth is that the hills in central Oklahoma roll and undulate over the landscape in quite a lovely, respectable manner.

Wildflowers are still blooming in the pastures and alongside the roads. The wild sunflowers, standing six or seven feet tall with flowers the size of softballs, are just beginning to go to seed.

The cedar trees you see here aren't native to Oklahoma, they are invasive due to the favorable climate and considered a nuisance. The large yellow splashes of prairie goldentop and the prairie grasses (I think the one pictured is little bluestem) grow wild. When they grow in fields like this, farmers and ranchers sometimes bale them into prairie hay.

Rural roads, even the blacktops, are lined with little shrubby sumac trees. The grasses, the larger trees, and the flowers still look like summer, but those little crooked sumac trees are beginning to blush red.

Coffee Creek runs through Arcadia under State Highway 66 (old Route 66) in a northwest direction up toward the old state capital of Guthrie. Coffee Creek doesn't make it quite to Guthrie, ending about two miles south of the Oklahoma/Logan county division, which happens to be a couple of blocks from where our house sits.

Baled, dried prairie hay sits in the sun next to a little pond in someone's pasture. Because the large, round bales were used, the hay can sit in the elements unharmed for months, no hay barn required. Barbed wire fences are quite common in rural Oklahoma. I grew up with them and can't count the number of times the back of my shirt got hooked by a barb as I scrambled through a fence.

Below you can just get a glimpse of the largest attraction of the town of Arcadia through the trees. Arcadia is an old town for Oklahoma. The post office predates statehood, and although a large fire took out a good portion of the town in the late 1920s, many lovely historical buildings still remain. Nowadays, there are about 250 residents.

Arcadia Lake is quite beautiful, located near gentle, rolling hills and the Deep Fork River. Hiking, boating, swimming, fishing and camping are all offered in the Arcadia Lake parks. The lake itself is over 1,800 acres with about 25 miles of shoreline. The lake, like most (if not all) of the state lakes, is man-made. The lake opened in 1987 and in addition to the recreational aspect, it is a part of the water supply system for the city of Edmond.

The round barn in Arcadia dates to about 1898. It housed livestock, hay and supplies and was a meeting place for townspeople. In the 1980s the roof of the barn collapsed. Since that time, a group of retirees worked to restore it to its original condition. Upkeep is ongoing; you can see a man working on the roof in the picture I took yesterday. Today the loft of the barn can be rented for special events. It's such a popular tourist attraction among travelers on old Route 66 that the town constructed a little area beside the road to pull onto for picture taking. When Paul McCartney drove The Mother Road to celebrate his birthday in 2008, it's said he took pictures there.

The area around Arcadia still boasts acres of pasture land, but there are recent additions, too. A local businessman recently built a roadside store just up a piece from the round barn that sells 500 varieties of bottled soda pop and boasts a retro diner serving old fashioned milkshakes, burgers, sandwiches, and chicken fried steak. Outside the front of the establishment, he erected a 66-foot pop bottle just so you won't miss the turn. In between the round barn and the store, you'll find a large tree farm owned by that same businessman (who happens to own the company that provides my husband's livelihood). You might have heard of this guy. His name is Aubrey McClendon and he had a hand in Oklahoma City's new NBA franchise team.

Just turn your head the other way, and you'll see we Okies haven't gotten far from our roots.

This part of the state is still a bit unfamiliar to me, but I am exploring and learning the area around my new house. I may never get used to the red dirt, but this place is starting to feel like home. If you ever visit, October is a beautiful time to see all the beauty central Oklahoma offers.

the only way beer ever passes through my lips

2009-09-27T14:54:00.000-05:00

On Thursday night the kids asked me for something quick and simple. I hadn't felt well on Thursday, nothing terrible, just tired, cranky and headachy. "Make something you don't have to think about, Mom, but I'd like something warm," said my sixteen-year old boy. This fits the bill perfectly.

Barbequed Meatloaf

(adapted from who knows how many recipes)

serves 4

1 pound ground beef, preferably ground chuck or my Daddy's if you can get it

1/3 cup seasoned bread crumbs

1/2 small onion, diced

1 large clove garlic, diced or pressed

1 egg, slightly beaten

1/3 cup barbeque sauce (we like Sweet Baby Ray's) plus extra for top

Mix all ingredients together except the extra sauce. Form into a loaf (I use a bread pan). Spread extra sauce over the top in a thin layer. Bake at 350 degrees F for about an hour. Be sure to pour off any fat before plating.

Baked Macaroni and Cheese

(adapted from Southern Living's The Ultimate Cookbook)

serves 4 to 6

2 cups pasta, such as small shells

1/4 c butter

1/4 c flour

2 c cold milk

1/4 t dry mustard

salt to taste

pepper to taste (freshly ground is best)

4 ounces shredded Vermont Sharp White Cheddar

Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain and set aside. Melt butter over low heat in a heavy bottomed saucepan. Whisk in flour and cook for one minute. Slowly whisk in milk. (It is important to keep it cold to keep from forming lumps as you add the milk to the roux.) Season with dry mustard, salt, and pepper. Bring flame to medium and cook, stirring frequently, until the mixture thickens. Stir in cheese until melted and well combined. Pour in cooked macaroni and mix well. Turn into buttered two quart casserole. Bake at 350 degrees F for 25 to 35 minutes.

And now for the beer:

Blue Moon Beer Bread

(adapted from a friend's recipe)

Serves 4 at my house

3 c self-rising flour

1/2 c sugar

12 ounces Blue Moon Belgian White

Combine all ingredients until a soft dough forms. Turn into a buttered loaf pan and bake at 350 degrees F for 50 to 60 minutes.

Now, you can use any kind of beer you want, but the Blue Moon is wheat ale and I really prefer the flavor over anything else I've tried. I have no idea whether the beer is good for drinking, it just makes good bread. You can also stir in half a cup of your favorite cheese. Delicious.

This is a simple, satisfying meal, and very boy-friendly. The flavors work well together. I usually serve buttered corn or roasted baby carrots alongside for a complete meal (growing boys, you know).

This time, the picture is mine, but was taken on the following Saturday when hubby and I decided we wanted a repeat of the macaroni and cheese with the bread sans meatloaf.

Fall Comfort

2009-09-25T16:42:00.002-05:00

Fall air started to creep into Oklahoma about two weeks into September. It was a gradual change, just the way Mother Nature meant. By Monday afternoon, our days were in the 70s followed by nights in the 50s. After all the infernal rain passed through, the sky shined periwinkle blue. Perfect fall weather put me in the mood for comfort food.

Honestly, some of my comfort food probably isn't what most people automatically turn to when seeking mental as well as physical nourishment. Over the past two weeks, I've prepared normal comfort food such as pot roast with potatoes and carrots, baked potato soup served with Blue Moon beer bread, and meatloaf with baked macaroni and cheese. Potage d'Oignon with Croque Monsieur -- better known as French Onion soup with ham and cheese sandwiches -- was my hands-down favorite, partially because it required a trip to La Baguette. On Tuesday night I made poulet en cocotte bonne femme or chicken with bacon, onions and potatoes roased in a casserole.

These meals have been so delicious I decided to share them with you. First up, soup and sandwiches.

Potage d'Oignon
(Onion Soup)

From Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume I

The onions for an onion soup need a long, slow cooking in butter and oil, then a long, slow simmering in stock for them to develop the deep, rich flavor which characterizes a perfect brew. You should therefore count on 2 ½ hours at least from start to finish. Though the preliminary cooking in butter requires some watching, the actual simmering can proceed almost unattended.
Serves six to eight

1 ½ pounds or about 5 cups thinly sliced onions
3 T butter
1 T oil
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp sugar
3 T flour
2 quarts boiling brown stock or beef bouillon
½ cup dry white wine, such as chardonnay
Salt and pepper to taste
3 T brandy
Rounds of hard-toasted French bread
1 ½ c grated Swiss cheese

Cook the onions slowly with the butter and oil in covered pan for 15 minutes. Uncover, raise heat to moderate, and stir in the salt and sugar. Cook for 30 to 40 minutes stirring frequently, until the onions have turned an even, deep golden brown. Sprinkle in the flour and stir for three minutes. Off the heat, blend in the boiling liquid (I use broth made with Knorr bouillon). Add the wine and season to taste. Simmer partially covered for 30 to 40 minutes or more, skimming occasionally. Correct seasoning.

Just before serving, stir in the brandy. Pour into soup cups over rounds of bread. Top with grated cheese.

Now, I know wine and brandy in one dish may seem a bit over the top, but trust me, don't make this without them. It is more than worth that trip to the liquor store. I used a 2007 Dancing Bull chardonnay which is pretty cheap. The brandy, not as cheap. I bought an E & J V.S.O.P. which ran about $20, but it is a pretty big bottle. The brandy is stirred in right at the end, so quality is important. Never cook with something you wouldn't drink straight. Since neither my husband nor I actually drink brandy, it will last a long time at 3 tablespoons per use.

This is really a simple soup, it's just time consuming. At the end you can run the soup cups under the broiler for a few minutes to melt the cheese if your soup cups are oven proof. I personally do not find this necessary.

Croque Monsieur
(literally, crunch mister)

From Bon Appétit

Ingredients:
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1 cup whole milk
Pinch of ground nutmeg
1 bay leaf
4 slices firm white sandwich bread
4 ounces thinly sliced Black Forest ham
4 ounces sliced Gruyère cheese
1 tablespoon melted butter
1/4 cup grated Gruyère cheese
2 teaspoons chopped fresh chives

Preparation
Melt 2 tablespoons butter in small saucepan over medium heat. Add flour and stir 1 minute. Gradually whisk in milk. Add nutmeg and bay leaf. Increase heat to medium-high and boil until sauce thickens, whisking constantly, about 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.
Preheat broiler. Place 2 bread slices on work surface. Top each with half of ham and sliced Gruyère. Top with remaining bread. Heat heavy large skillet over low heat. Brush sandwiches with 1 tablespoon melted butter. Add to skillet and cook until deep golden brown, about 2 minutes per side. Transfer to small baking sheet. Spoon sauce, then grated cheese over sandwiches. Broil until cheese begins to brown, about 2 minutes.

These sandwiches took me back to Montmartre, where my lovely daughter and I ate these for dinner our first night in Paris. Delicious. Don't skimp and leave off the sauce. It's worth the little bit of extra effort.

As Julia would say, bon appétit!

Pictures are bing images; I did not have the foresight to photograph my own food.

the end of summer

2009-09-04T12:35:00.001-05:00

I don't know exactly how the entire summer got away from me, but I haven't posted a thing on my blog since May.

Our lovely daughter is installed in her dorm room at the University of Oklahoma. She was accepted into the school of drama and is delighted with her schedule. Unlike most majors, the dramaturgy program sprinkles drama courses through all four years. This semester, she is taking costume construction, intro to acting, logic, government, and make-up. Believe it or not, this is the recommended course of study for a first semester freshman. Needless to say, the girl is in tall cotton.

I am having a much easier time than expected with her departure. That might have something to do with the fact that, so far, she's slept at home at least one night of her weekends. It's hard to miss a kid who's here weekly. She calls every other day or so to tell me about her days. I find it quite amusing that she usually tells me more about what she's eaten that day than what's being discussed in classes. Last night she called me because she needed to do laundry, which required that I deposit money onto something called a "Sooner Card". She planned to do laundry and study for her first test, which is in logic. When I took logic, it was a philosophy course. In OU's dramaturgy program, logic satifies her math requirement. I would have killed to sub logic for college algebra!

Middle son is a sophomore in high school and the little guy is a fifth grader this year. The house is quieter with just the two of them here. Who knew an 18 year old girl could cause so much ruckus? The boys ask about their sister and are happy to talk to her on the phone but don't seem to miss her much. One of them made the comment that she wasn't here much more when she lived with us. I think that's an exaggeration. Maybe.

So, life goes on without much change. I admit to being surprised.

I'll leave you with photos of my front yard as it looks today with fall just around the corner. The shots of the roses are just for you, Laurie.

burgundy cotton crape myrtle and daylilies

yellow queen gallardia, barberry and grasses

another shot of the gallardia, with burning bush and blue boy roses

purple fountain grass, yellow lantana, tri-color sedum

lily, painted fern, and ginger caladium

spurred butterfly pea

mandevilla

blue butterfly pea with double blossoms

climbing rose

shrub rose

the blue boy rose again

Sophie is Growing Up and Other Unrelated News

2009-05-02T07:48:00.001-05:00

Puppies grow so fast. Take a look at how big our little Sophie has grown.

That's Maddy beside her. I do not know how to get rid of those eerie eyes. Maddy weighs about 20 pounds, so I am guessing Sophie is over 10 by now. Sophie is chewing on my lambswool duster, which I no longer own. It had to go directly into the trash by the time she finished with it. The joys of having a puppy in the house!

We now have a hidey hole! This is the shelter before it was surrounded by concrete and topped with its sliding lid. I tried to take video for you, but the little video camera needed a charge. Two guys arrived at 7:00am and immediately began to work.

They promptly removed a big chunk of garage floor using a wet saw and the tiniest backhoe I've ever seen (you can just see it in the background). Then the digging commenced. A trailer full of dirt was hauled away and the wonderful guy in this picture began to clean up the mess they'd made. By this time it was only 10am. While waiting for the concrete to arrive, he proceeded to pressure wash my entire driveway, saying, "Well, ma'am, I'd rather stay busy than sit here and twiddle my thumbs." After the concrete was poured and finished and the top set in place, we ended up with this:

There is room for all five human members of the family, three dogs, two cats, and a fishbowl. Actually, we could probably get two or maybe three more adults inside in a pinch. Inside, you can latch the lid with chains. If the worst happened and we ended up with a car, or parts of the house on top of the shelter, a come-along (or hand winch) is installed to save us from ending up trapped in a shelter. We also registered the shelter with local authorities, so in the event of a tornado in our neighborhood, the firefighters ought to know where we are. All in all, I feel a bit safer.

It's Official: I've Totally Lost It

2009-03-30T09:23:00.001-05:00

A week ago Saturday, we added another puppy to our family. I know, crazy. We now have three children, two cats, three dogs, and a fish tank. I spend all of my time feeding people and animals, then cleaning up their messes.

My husband, for some odd reason, is in the mood to acquire, which is quite out of character. He recently surprised me with a Kindle and about a month later, with a new laptop. I love the Kindle and am using it non-stop. There are so many wonderful titles available on Amazon for nothing at all; it's like having a lending library at my fingertips 24 hours per day. The laptop was quite overdue. It's nothing really special, just a Dell Inspiron, but it's brand new and shiny and fast. Then last Saturday, hubby took us shopping under the pretense of buying new collars for Jack and Maddy. The little guy and I had been talking about some cute schnauzer puppies we'd seen at our favorite pet store. Another customer had failed to spay in a timely manner and ended up with a litter of puppies. They asked the pet store to offer the whole litter for sale. There were three little salt and pepper puppies, like Jack and Maddy, and one little solid black female. I fell in love with her immediately and the little guy couldn't stop talking about her.

Not long ago, I bought my son a flip video camera from Amazon for $59, which is a steal. So, this morning I spent ten minutes taking a video of the dogs, new puppy included, uploaded it to the laptop and within two clicks, had the following movie. Please be kind; I have never used a video camera of any kind before. I left the original audio because I think Jack's play growl is so cute. The puppy, Sophie, is about ten weeks old and weighs all of five pounds. Jack is largest and is wearing a black collar. Maddy's beard is mostly white and she's wearing a pink collar. In the grand tradition of WillowTree, enjoy this immensely boring pet video:

spring comes for an early visit

2009-03-02T11:50:00.001-06:00

As I'm sure many of you have heard, tornadoes touched down in Oklahoma on February 10. The storm was a bit out of season and completely unexpected, at least by me.

I had driven to my parent's house after dropping the little guy off at school. Middle son was feeling ill, and at 15, I thought, old enough to stay home alone with his cold and the animals.

My mother was injured this past Saturday (another story all to itself, which I promise to tell in the next day or so). I was driving the two hours up the turnpike to give Daddy some much-needed time for farm chores and wash Mama's hair. When I arrived, her injuries had worsened somewhat, so we decided instead to have lunch then drive to the doctor's office.

The appointment was scheduled for 1:30 pm at an office no more than five miles away. At 1 pm, I started getting mother ready and pulled my car up to the porch of their house. After much whining and maneuvering (and that was just me), we got her into the car. At the doctor's office, I went inside for a wheelchair even though Mama thought she could walk. When I came back to the car, she was sitting with her legs on the ground and said, "Maybe I could use that wheelchair after all." The doctor took a look at her, gave her a prescription and we made our slow way back out to the car. After returning the wheelchair, I drove down the road, filled the prescription and took Mama home. I commented on our good luck with the weather. It was a beautiful day with cotton ball clouds in a clear blue sky. We reversed the exit manuevers and got her into her recliner. Then I noticed the light on my cell phone (which I'd left on the coffee table) was flashing. I'd missed several calls from my husband.

A tornadic storm was ripping through Oklahoma City not far from where he works. The storm was moving quickly and violently in a northeasterly direction. On its current course, it would be no more than a few miles from our home and the little guy's school. At the time, my husband didn't tell me he had watched a funnel cloud flatten an apartment complex about a mile and a half away from his office building. Thank the Lord for small miracles.

Immediately, I called middle son's cell phone. He had dropped it from the top of a friend's back yard shed two days before and I had yet to replace it. It rang but he didn't answer. Turns out, he couldn't; we thought just the screen was busted but the entire phone was worthless except for the incessant ringing. Unbeknownst to me our power was cycling on and off. In between cycles, I got a call from him. After telling him where to find the corded phone, we lost our connection mid-sentence. Five minutes later, another call from him came. He had found the phone, plugged it in the laundry room jack, gathered the dogs and the cats, a bag of Milky Way bars, and his ipod, and shut himself into the laundry room. About then, the power went out, this time for good. I stayed on the phone with him, but had no idea where the storm was traveling.

The little guy was in lock-down at his school with no power and therefore no phones.

Our lovely daughter's high school is twenty minutes to the southeast and was never in any real danger. Thank the Lord she insisted on transferring back to her old high school when we moved.

The children were brave. I was not. I talked to middle son with tears coming down my face. I could not get to him. My husband could not get to him. There was nothing to do but wait and hope.

Three tornadoes went through Oklahoma City and the surrounding metropolitan area that day, not to mention the devastating and deadly tornado that hit Lone Grove, Oklahoma later that night. Our house is just off Kelly past Waterloo Road. The square mile to our south is completed by Santa Fe Road on the West and Sorghum Mill Road on the south. The tornado crossed Santa Fe south of Sorghum Mill and proceeded to take out the fence of the horse ranch there. It moved northeast into Sorghum Mill Estates where it damaged upwards of twenty homes and completely destroyed at least one. Then it crossed Sorghum Mill Road and went through the corner of Oak Tree taking roofs, trees, electric poles, and the entire top of one house with it. On the same northeast track, it crossed Kelly and tore across the golf course taking out fences and the driving range backstop. Behind the country club, it took another four homes, one of them belonging to the head of my husband's department at work, before crossing Waterloo Road, wiping out a fence around a pasture, and flattening an auto body shop and three other businesses. Our vet's new building was spared, but his old building that he uses for storage is just gone. I don't know what happened after the tornado crossed the next road to the east, but it was on the ground for several more miles. Luckily a lot of that country is pasture land, and there were no more reports of destroyed homes.

When I drove home that evening it was about 6:00 pm. Kelly Road was completely closed a mile from our neighborhood. I drove west down Sorghum Mill and almost hit a tree that had fallen over the road. We were without power all evening but it came on sometime after we had gone to bed. We were so incredibly lucky. I cannot even fathom the alternative.

All the homes in our neighborhood are in some state of receiving a new roof. Ours hasn't been assessed yet by the insurance company. Even though our house is only two years old, I am betting on replacement. We had high winds, marble sized hail, and a tornado passed as close as a half mile away.

I was born in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, and grew up in Nowata County. I lived in Topeka, Kansas as a young adult. Tornadoes are not new to me. I am not afraid of them. But you can bet we're getting a storm shelter. Pronto.

All photos are images from news coverage of the February 10, 2009, tornadoes. The damaged home is in Oak Tree, just down Kelly Road.

simple pleasures

2009-01-09T11:54:00.001-06:00

I am not on a diet.

I am eating healthy, varied foods that happen to be high in fiber and low in fat. More fruit, less cheese. More vegetables, less meat. I am exercising at least a bit every day.

I have given up Dr. Pepper.

Except for the Dr. Pepper, it happened almost entirely by accident.

It's funny how easily we can fall into patterns of behavior. Even though I stay at home, I spend many mornings running errands. After dropping the little guy at his school, I would drive to the 7-11 and buy a Dr. Pepper before commencing my shopping or what have you. On the way home, I would frequently get a snack or lunch at a drive through. I started to feel a bit run down and tired more often than normal. Then the holidays hit, which throws any routine I have into a tailspin.

Hubby had gained five pounds and asked me to cook healthy dinners and pack his lunch to help him take the weight off again. I pulled out the cookbooks and started planning dinners. I went grocery shopping and avoided the snack food aisle. The result in my own food intake is just a byproduct, but it's been stunning.

I had forgotten how much I love simple foods. Shirred eggs. Baked apples. Steel cut oats. Roasted butternut squash and asparagus. Whole wheat bagels smeared with a bit of peanut butter. Pasta with mushroom sauce. Yum.

Here are a couple of this week's favorite recipes:

Oeufs en Cocotte
(Shirred Eggs)

Grease a small ramekin with a bit of butter or olive oil. Heat oven to 325 degrees F. Break one or two eggs into the ramekin, depending on desired serving size. Sprinkle with good salt and pepper, a little paprika; you can add some fresh herbs, milk or cream, ham and sauteed mushrooms, or just about anything you desire. Bake for about 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from oven and serve. I like mine baked plain then dolloped with sour cream and a spoon of salsa.

Mushroom Sauce

2 teaspoons olive oil
1 minced shallot
I minced garlic clove
4 cups thinly sliced mushrooms
1/2 teaspoon rubbed sage
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
2 tablespoons sherry
1 1/2 tablespoons flour
1 cup evaporated skimmed milk
2 tablespoons low-fat or non-fat sour cream

In a large skillet, heat oil. Saute the shallot until soft, about two minutes. Add the garlic; cook one minute longer. Stir in the mushrooms, sage, salt and pepper; cook, stirring frequently, until the mushrooms are tender, about six minutes.

Increase heat to high; cook until almost all liquid evaporates, about three minutes. Add the sherry; cook one minute. Stir in the flour; cook, stirring constantly, until smooth. Stir in the evaporated milk; reduce heat and simmer until thickened, about seven minutes. Remove from heat and stir in sour cream.

Serve over pasta, chicken, or turkey.
Serves four.

after the eating

2008-11-29T11:36:00.001-06:00

The most glorious thing about having Thanksgiving at my house is the actual state of my house. The floors are all clean, the laundry room is neat, the granite in the kitchen is polished to a high sheen, and there are even tablecloths on both my tables. There is no dust, grit or grime to be found. Even the children's bathroom is still in a state where I will use it in a pinch. That, my friends, is saying something.

Last Sunday, I made a big meal for my side of the family. And I do mean big. There are five of us, plus my parents, my brother, and his girlfriend. I roasted a 17 pound turkey, made stuffing, three side dishes, cranberry sauce, gravy, and two pies. I worked for two days. Due to unforeseen circumstances, my brother and his girlfriend did not attend. I managed to not kill my mother. I was quite proud of myself. We had enough leftovers to feed a small army. The children happily ate leftover turkey, dressing and such for two or three days.

On Wednesday, the older two kids left for San Antonio, and I started cooking again, this time for hubby's family. I scaled the turkey down to twelve pounds, made a wonderful dressing with roasted garlic and mushrooms, changed the sides up to suit his family, and left off the baking, since hubby's mother brought lovely Marie Callendar's pies. I served it all with a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling and two bottles of Georges DuBoeuf's Beaujolais nouveau. Talk about wonderful. I fell into a pleasant stupor from the combination of turkey and wine. We watched Dirty Jobs, stared at Mike Rowe (well, we girls, anyway) and laughed a lot, then watched the Cowboys play the Seahawks. My lovely MIL cares nothing for football and was quite annoyed that we chose to watch the game. SIL and her husband are Seattle fans, while hubby and I and our nephew all pull for the Cowboys. Obviously, half of us were very happy campers when the Cowboys ran away with the game.

After everyone left and the leftovers were safely stowed in the garage fridge, hubby and I opted for naps. He woke up sick. I mean sick. I spent the last two nights sleeping in middle son's bedroom to avoid the plague. At least I think that's what he's got, based on the sheer amount of whining, moaning, and pleading coming from my bedroom. Of course, this raging sickness has given me the perfect excuse to avoid shopping for anything at all during the nuttiest shopping days of the year!

I have learned several things from this experience:

Number one: always, always offer to cook for Thanksgiving. No travel and a sparkling clean house are included.

Number two: middle son's bedroom is actually quite nice, and his bed is incredibly comfortable.

Number three: sleeping alone is preferable to sleeping with a sick, whiny, snoring man. I actually slept through the night, in the perfect temperature, without waking once because of snoring or a big hand being draped over my chest. I even read in bed until I fell asleep without once hearing, "What time is it? Aren't you sleepy?"

Number four: always, always offer to cook for Thanksgiving, because of leftovers. I haven't cooked for two days!

The dogs and the cats have been in hog heaven, too. Turkey! Stock poured over their kibble! Strange, wonderful people to scratch their ears and their bellies. Sleeping in middle son's bed with the mama! Who could ask for more?

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and avoided all of the stores on Black Friday. Now I plan to sit right here on my sofa and pretend that Christmas is still more than a month away. I think I can get away with it until at least December 12th. But when our lovely daughter's birthday is over, I'll probably have to face up to reality and start decorating and shopping like the rest of the free world. Bah, humbug.

ingredients for a perfect morning

2008-07-10T08:24:00.001-05:00

home baked scones, warm from the oven, slathered with real butter

(diet be damned)

the sweet little noises of contentment coming from sleeping dogs

a brand new terra cotta pot waiting to be filled with soil and my newest plant

lovely new patio furniture and a cloudy summer day with a cool breeze blowing

orangey red, ripening tomatoes waiting to be picked from the plant

sleeping children

two new gardening books

and an empty calendar

spring in Oklahoma

2008-03-31T09:25:00.001-05:00

It's 9:30am on Monday morning and I just sat down after a whirlwind morning of showers, breakfasts, lunch packing and phone calls.

With five in the family, our morning is a carefully timed and executed routine. Hubby rises first around 5:00am for coffee and a bit of solitude. Our lovely daughter is up at 5:45am for her shower and middle son is off to walk the dogs and give all of the animals their breakfast. Meanwhile, hubby is in the exercise room on the treadmill or the bowflex doing his daily workout. I am awakened by the sounds of him shaving about 6:30am. I get up to prepare breakfasts and lunches. By 7:00am the three of them are out the door. The little guy gets up about 8:00am and walks out the door about 8:40am.

This morning, we all slept until 7:15am. Our power was out after the storms came through last night.

I'm a bit of a night owl. Last night while reading after everyone else had turned in, I heard the Emergency Broadcast System's familiar beep sound over a rerun of Medium. The message scrolling across the top of the screen indicated tornado watches for a couple of counties to the west. Being a lifelong Okie, I ignored it and continued reading while Patricia Arquette dreamed in the background. Two or three messages later, I was becoming quite annoyed and looked up to see a neighboring county added to the list. By now it was 11:30pm. I could hear the storm beginning to pick up outside, heavy rain pelting the glass and the brick on the north side of our home while the wind whistled and roared. Hubby got up for a bottle of water, saw the message scrolling across the screen, and went back to bed. I heard our television go on in the bedroom, so I turned off the living room lights and television and joined him. By midnight the first storm had passed and we went to sleep.

An hour and a half later, heavy hail woke us. We turned the television on just in time for the power to flicker off for a few minutes. Quickly, the television came back on. Another storm was approaching. Earlier it looked like this storm would miss us, but we were now directly in its path. When a funnel was sighted four miles south and three miles west of us, we dressed and gathered candles, flashlights and a radio. Just as we were leaving our room to wake the children, our power went out.

We woke the children and had them dress by the light of a flashlight or candle. Hubby insists on full dress, complete with socks and shoes. I'm sure he's right, but the optimist in me always wants to throw on a robe and slippers.

I lit a candle and walked to the kitchen for batteries. Every blessed radio in this house requires a 9 volt battery. I had a package of two left over from changing the smoke detectors' batteries when the time changed. Batteries went into three separate radios from three separate rooms in the house. Nothing. Nada. Not one of them would come on. We were in the dark with the children, the cats, and the dogs with no way to hear how close the wall cloud might be or if the storm had passed.

About 2:30am, the wind and rain died down, calming to a mere whisper. I walked onto the porch in the dark while hubby went into the garage to find some news on his car radio. The only signs of life in the entire neighborhood were disembodied, moving lights. Against the dark, hulking shadows of the homes, and the dark, cloudy sky, lights moved here and there as our neighbors ventured out to check the storm as well. The floating lights reminded me of an eerie legend from my childhood, the ghost lights of the town of Alluwe, which had been flooded during the creation of Oologah Lake.

I went inside and hubby met me in the hallway. The storm had passed and we could all go back to bed.

The boys had a bit of trouble settling down, and decided to sleep together in one room. We are well outside city limits, and with the power out in the neighborhood, the night was black. The air felt close with no fans circulating the air or creating the customary night noise. It was some time before I was able to fall asleep.

The electricity came back on this morning around 7:15am. We woke from heavy sleep, the kind of groggy awakening you have after spending a restless night. We sped through our morning routine and while the children waited for hubby to drive them to school, we turned on the news. We saw pictures of that intersection four miles south and three miles west. One house had no roof, another had the garage door rolled up like a blind. A mother with her children had escaped after hiding in the laundry room of their brick home while they watched the roof blow away. "It's just stuff. We're alive," she said, looking at a child no more than three, held in her arms. "That's all that matters."

We had no idea a tornado ever touched the ground.

good things come to those that wait

2008-02-26T23:29:00.001-06:00

My poor hubby was quite sick on Valentine's Day. To be honest, this would not be a big problem if he weren't the world's biggest procrastinator.

He came home early from work that day, something he does only once in a blue moon. He called me in advance, and asked what he'd need to do to keep himself out of the dog house. My response was, "A smart man would bring home at least a token."

He is a smart man.

He came home carrying an envelope. No chocolates, no flowers, no syrupy Valentine's card, not even take out. But that was okay with me, because --

tucked inside that envelope, I found:

Which gained entry for two into this. Quite an acceptable token.

We planned to attend the exhibit on Saturday after Valentine's Day. He was still feeling under the weather. So I waited. We planned to go the next Saturday, but both older kids went to Tulsa for the weekend, and we couldn't find anyone to babysit for the little guy long enough for us to leisurely take in the exhibit and lunch at the museum's wonderful cafe. So I waited.

On Thursday, my husband sent an e-mail telling me that he'd taken vacation on Friday and asking if I would like to go to the museum with him.

Friday morning dawned clear and cold. The two older kids got themselves up, walked dogs, fed and watered all the pets, showered, dressed and got ready for school. They woke me before they left to say good morning. Yes, on occasion, they can be angels.

The little one was still sleeping when I got out of bed to get him ready for school. I made him breakfast while he got ready, then drove him to school along with two of the next door neighbor kids. When I got home, hubby was having coffee. We lingered over coffee, tea, newspapers, and blogs. Dogs slept at our feet. Cats slept curled on the sofa. A fire burned in the fireplace. It was a lovely morning.

We drove to the museum and parked just in front of the door. Perfect! Lunch in the museum cafe was lovely. I had chicken tortellini with sun dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts and grilled chicken in a buttery white wine sauce. Hubby had a Caesar salad and the soup of the day, which was a delicious seafood gumbo. Everything was delicious.

I loved the exhibition. There were lovely art nouveau posters, quite a lot of them, by people such as Theophile-Alexandre Steinlen and Alphonse Mucha. We saw porcelain by Sevres and art pottery by Edmond Lachenal. Some of the paintings exhibited were beautiful; my favorites were by Charles Guilloux.

Some of the more fascinating items we saw were books detailing the restoration work done by Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc on Notre-Dame de Paris and Saint Denis Basilica. The were open to various pages and displayed under glass. I would have like so much to take those books in my hands, find a quiet corner and sit down to read. The books were on loan from the University of Oklahoma in Norman, which is about a thirty minute drive from my home. When the exhibition is over I'm going to find out if that's possible. Wouldn't that be wonderful!

After we left the museum, my husband took me shopping. Normally, I hate to shop, but we were shopping for furniture in an antique store in lovely El Reno, Oklahoma. I think he felt terribly guilty about Valentine's Day, because I came home with these:

a Duncan Phyfe style china cabinet

a little French style side table

this gorgeous buffet to match the china cabinet

this little two tier table with a pie crust edge

and last, but not least--

this mirror for my dining room wall

We had such a wonderful day. I'll remember it every time I walk into my dining room for many years to come. I can't think of a better Valentine's Day gift he could have given me.

an Okie contest

2008-02-22T00:48:00.001-06:00

Well I never been to heaven

But I been to Oklahoma

Well they tell me I was born there

But I really don't remember

In Oklahoma, not Arizona

What does it matter

Almost everybody knows "Never Been to Spain" as recorded by Three Dog Night. I'd be willing to bet not many know the man who wrote it.

An Oklahoma native, he was born in Duncan and grew up in Comanche. He attended Oklahoma State University on a football scholarship, and served in the navy before he began performing folk music in California coffeeshops. He had a few hits of his own, but most of his songs were made famous by others. He was covered by people as varied as the Kingston Trio, Joan Baez, John Denver, Steppenwolf, Ringo Starr, Linda, Ronstadt, Waylon Jennings, Brownsville Station, and Elvis Presley. "Joy to the World", perhaps the most famous song he wrote, was covered by Three Dog Night and spent something like six weeks at number one sometime in the early 1970s. His music has been heard in several movies, including Easy Rider, The Big Chill, and Forrest Gump.

He came to songwriting naturally; his mother wrote "Heartbreak Hotel" for Elvis. They are the only mother and son to each have written a number one record. His mother taught him much of what he knew about songwriting and insisted he learn classical piano as a child. She was a fixture in the Nashville music scene and the aunt of a former governor of our great state.

The singer-songwriter was also an actor on the large screen as well as the small. He appeared in The Black Stallion, Gremlins, and Disorganized Crime on the silver screen, among others. We grew up watching him in guest spots on such varied shows as Bonanza, WKRP in Cinncinnati, Dukes of Hazzard, Growing Pains, and Diff'rent Strokes.

When he was inducted into the Oklahoma Music Hall of Fame, his grandson quoted him as calling Oklahoma "the cultural capital of the world".

Your mission, should you choose to accept it:

First, name this famous Okie. I've given you many clues, it shouldn't be hard.

Second, name two other songs about Oklahoma that DO NOT have the words 'Oklahoma' or 'Okie' in the title.

Third, name the character who famously sang "Joy to the World" in an episode of a popular television series of the 1990s. A hint: the network was Fox.

Last, but not least, name two actors born in the Sooner State. And please, one of them cannot be Chuck Norris.

Bonus Question on a slight tangent: tell me the origin of the phrase "three dog night" for which the band was named. (Peter, this one's for you.)

Correct answers, of course, will be used for scoring. Extra points for the bonus question, how quickly answers are submitted, creativity and humor.

You are hereby prohibited from entering if you share my state of residence. Do your best not to call or write your sibling in Oklahoma to ask for answers. (That would definitely be cheating, Laurie.) The winner will receive something from me that is uniquely Oklahoma. Enter by sending an e-mail to the address on my profile no later than Wednesday at midnight, CST.

Good luck, ya'll.

The picture above is the sun setting over the countryside of Central Oklahoma.

circa 1985

2008-02-20T00:41:00.001-06:00

Nothing places a generation in time and space quite like popular culture. Coming of age among certain music, movies and art certainly plays a role in our development as young people, even if only to a small degree. With that in mind, I give you a snapshot of the year I graduated high school, 1985.

Best Picture
Out of Africa

Best Actor
William Hurt in Kiss of the Spider Woman

Best Actress
Geraldine Page in The Trip to Bountiful

Best Album
Phil Collins
No Jacket Required

Best Song, Billboard
Careless Whisper
Wham

Drama Emmy
Cagney and Lacey

Comedy Emmy
The Cosby Show

The following are awards that were assessed only by yours truly as a teenager:

Best Comedy
Real Genius

Best Romance
Better Off Dead

Best Sci Fi
Back to the Future

Best Teen Angst Picture
The Breakfast Club

1985 saw the birth of Guns N Roses, Pixies, Jane's Addiction, and Hootie and the Blowfish. We drank New Coke under protest and watched Live Aid. We watched Meg Tilly in the unlikely role of a Catholic nun. Angelica Huston and Kathleen Turner strutted through Prizzi's Honor, Jessica Lange sang Sweet Dreams, and Whoopi Goldberg bared her dramatic chops with amazing results in The Color Purple. Harrison Ford lived among the Amish, James Garner wooed Sally Field, and Robert Loggia appeared in what may possibly be one of my favorite films ever. There was a foreign film from France that year with the English title of Three Men and a Cradle. I think you know what came next. America, country of the remake.

That was the year that OJ married Nicole. The car company, Saturn, was founded, and Reagan began serving his second term. Nelson Mandela was still imprisoned, the FDA began screening blood donations for AIDS, Route 66 was officially decommissioned, and the wreck of the Titanic was discovered. Calvin and Hobbes debuted that year along with the Nintendo Entertainment System (stateside, anyway).

On my cassette deck in heavy rotation that year (many of the albums are pre-1985):

Prince, 1999, Purple Rain, and Around the World in a Day

Helix, Deep Cuts the Knife

Scorpions, Love at First Sting

Def Leppard, High and Dry and Pyromania

Van Halen, Van Halen, Diver Down, and 1984

Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath

Mötley Crüe, Shout at the Devil

Foreigner, 4, Rumours

Pat Benatar, Get Nervous

Bryan Adams, Reckless

Night Ranger, Dawn Patrol and Midnight Madness

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Long After Dark and Southern Accents

Loverboy, Get Lucky

Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon and The Wall

John Lennon and she-who-will-not-be-named, Double Fantasy

Styx, Pieces of Eight, Cornerstone, most frequently, Paradise Theater, and Kilroy Was Here

Michael Jackson, Off the Wall and Thriller

Jean-Pierre Rampal, Telemann's Suite in A Minor

In 1985, it was still legal to purchase and drink 3.2 beer over the state line in Kansas. I wasn't a drinker, but I did buy beer for friends. Once. Then it occurred to me that I was breaking the law, even if they drank it in Kansas. Sometime that year, Kansas voted to raise the drinking age to 21. I don't remember exactly when it went into effect, though, as it was kind of a non event for me.

Last, but not least, I do have to admit to growing up in a redneck county. Being the daughter of a farmer and rancher, a member of the local 4-H club, and a regular on main street, I knew my share of cowboys, rodeo types, and outright rednecks. I learned to square dance and do the cotton-eyed joe while in high school. I can sing along to songs by Don Williams, Alabama, George Strait, The Oak Ridge Boys, and my personal favorite, Bocephus. I was still singing along in a countrified fashion in 1985. As I've said many times before, it is indeed possible to take the country out of the girl. As long as she wasn't too into country to begin with.

The picture was taken in the spring of 1985 by an amateur photographer friend of my parents in Tulsa's Woodward Park.

elsewhere

2008-02-18T15:16:00.001-06:00

Today is sunny, the kind of crisp, clear, blue day at the tail end of winter that brings with it the promise spring will come. The kind of day that draws you outside to walk, to breathe in the cool air, and feel the warmth of the sun as it grazes your face.

I spent part of the morning walking with the dogs, bringing them in after lunch for kibble, yogurt, and a nap. Maddy, at five months, still needs that midday meal. Or so she thinks. Afterward, I went out to purchase some new dress shirts for hubby and pick up a few necessities. In between the 7-11 and Kohl's, I came across a thrift store I hadn't noticed before. While I generally hate to shop, I infrequently have moods conducive to wandering through unique little thrift stores and gift shops.

The thrift store had a name we've all seen before, something to the effect of "Second Time Around". I went in and began to wander about the store, picking up a piece of pottery that caught my eye and inspecting a Swedish Modern headboard in a lovely blonde wood tone. As I made my way to the back of the store, nearing the register, I heard a man and a woman talking. It was all business, talk of rent, transporting goods to the store, and collecting bounced checks. The man was older, perhaps the woman's father, and he peppered his sentences with various phrases meant to thank the Lord for their good fortune. I smiled to myself and thought about Brother Bill, the preacher at my childhood church. Something in the old man's manner and phrasing reminded me of him.

I finished my errands and came home. The dogs, fresh from their crates, were delighted to see me and ran immediately to the back door. The cats even slunk in to see who had come home. The house had grown too warm and stuffy while I was gone, so I opened the bank of windows on the kitchen wall, looking into the backyard. Suddenly the cats could hear, rather than just see those birds, and now, even though I closed the windows twenty minutes ago, they are still meowing at me, pleading for open windows again.

This time last year I wouldn't have given you a plug nickel for this town. I would most likely have wished to be elsewhere. Suddenly, undeniably, it is home.

I believe this is heaven
To no one else but me
And I'll defend it long as
I can be
Left here to linger
In silence
If I choose to
Would you try to understand?

from Elsewhere by Sarah MacLachlan

Musée Rodin

2008-02-07T22:19:00.001-06:00

It was cold, dreary and rainy the day we went to the Rodin Museum. The grounds were so beautiful that I put my shawl over my head and walked through the garden in the rain. By the time I took this picture, it was raining fairly heavily. My lovely daughter wanted to stay dry and let me walk alone in the rain.

The Thinker, perhaps Rodin's most famous piece, simply stuns you with his presence. I was enjoying the quiet and solitude. Being alone in the garden was calming.

This piece, The Gates of Hell, was the most magnificent and enthralling work that I saw all day. It might be my favorite work of art in any medium that I saw while in Paris. I remember feeling awestruck. By the time I made my way to stand in front of this enormous work, my lovely daughter had come looking for me. We went inside and went through the museum together.

This piece is small, but stunning. I think the most striking thing about Rodin's work is the sense of movement he communicates with an inanimate sculpture. This is The Toilet of Venus.

The entwined hands are called The Cathedral. I love the graceful look of this sculpture.

This lovely marble bust is called Diane. Another small but stunning sculpture.

I don't remember the name of this headless lady. I honestly don't remember who the artist is, either. The museum was full of pieces by other artists that were collected by Rodin. Even though I've chosen sculpture to display here, there were paintings, drawings and pottery in the museum as well.

I love the intimacy of Eternal Idol. It is truly breathtaking. It embarrassed my daughter just a bit when I wanted to stop in front of it, gaze at the beauty and snap a photo.

My lovely daughter alongside a Rodin sculpture. The name was something along the lines of Fish Lady. My girl said she couldn't leave the museum until I took this picture. Reserved is not a word I would use to describe her.

By the time we left the museum, the rainfall had dropped to a drizzle. We left the grounds and walked along the streets of Paris, making our way to Invalides to see more treasures of the City of Lights.

a cherished childhood book

2008-01-29T00:02:00.001-06:00

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind,

and another,

his mother called him "wild thing" and Max said, "I'll eat you up!"

so he was sent to bed without eating anything.

That very night in Max's room, a forest grew, and grew,

and grew until his ceiling hung with vines

and the walls became the world all around.

And an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max

and he sailed off through night and day,

and in and out of weeks

and almost over a year

To where the wild things are.

--from Where the Wild Things Are

by Maurice Sendak

I told a fib in my comments today. I didn't mean to, but it slipped out. At the time, it felt like the truth. Then later, I remembered.

There is a book I have two copies of other than the Bible. It is the wonderful children's book quoted above. The copy my parents bought for me is put away, wrapped carefully to preserve it, even though it is an old paperback copy that probably cost just a few dollars. The copy I bought for my daughter when she was still a baby is on the bookshelf in my youngest son's room.

This was my favorite book growing up. There are a handful of books I have from my childhood, but this is the most precious to me. It is the one book my father would read to me over and over again. If I wanted to hear about Swimmy or a little bunny, I would have to take the book to my mother. But if I wanted to hear about Max, and wolf suits, and sailing in and out of time, Daddy would oblige.

He read the book to me complete with voices: a naughty little boy voice and roaring, teeth gnashing wild thing voices. I always giggled hysterically, but truth be told, I was a little scared.

I couldn't wait to read it to my lovely daughter. I knew I'd have to wait until she was a certain age, although I had no idea what that age might be. I bided my time reading Pat the Bunny or The Poky Little Puppy.

One day, my little girl toddled out of her room with her copy of my favorite children's book in hand. We read it. Then we read it again. Then another time. It was our bedtime book that night and for many, many nights thereafter. I read it to her so many times that I can still quote most of it to you today, word for word. When nothing else would calm her in the car or the store, I would quietly recite that beginning passage. It worked every single time.

I quoted the passage above from memory. There might be a word or two wrong, but I doubt it. Even after all of this time, and two more children who also demanded multiple readings, I still love it. Someday, a day not very soon at all mind you, I bet that I'll have a child or two who will be buying that book for their baby's nursery.

Fun Monday #9: What I Like to Curl Up with at Night

2008-01-28T00:30:00.001-06:00

This week, the Fun Monday host is AOJ & The Lurchers. She wants a peek into the privacy of our bedrooms, specifically, she wants to see our nightstands and, if we're so inclined, what's inside them.

The little set of drawers beside my bed holds my bedside lamp, a crystal dish for my jewelry, a little candle the children gave me on my birthday this year, coasters, my booklight, and a stack of books that I am currently reading, just read or want to read soon. Really a bit boring, I think.

I'm reading The Queen of Subtleties, the one with my booklight tucked inside. The stack includes Middlemarch, On Chesil Beach, and Origin of Species.

The drawer is full of more books, magazines, some bottles of lotion, a hair clip and ponytail holder. There are stashes of books all over my house. Stacks on tables and shelves, drawers and cabinets stuffed full to the brim. I love books. I always have.

I find it very hard to part with most books, and even some of my magazines. In our other house, I had some beautiful built-in bookshelves with cabinets underneath them. The shelves and the cabinets were full of books, magazines, and photo albums. My built in bookshelves in this house are small by comparison, so there are books in my nightstand, on shelves in my closet, in cabinets in the half bath and even in the bottom of my large double linen closet. I continue to buy books, and I continue to hold on to them. I need our lovely daughter to finish growing up and go to college already. I need her bedroom for book storage!

Fun Monday #8: Coming and Going

2008-01-21T00:01:00.001-06:00

I wasn't blogging a year ago when Fun Monday started, so I am showing you the views from the front and the back of my house. I even threw in a couple of street shots. Even if I had been blogging, the view would have been different. We've just been in this house since July.

This is the view from the front porch. You can see my porch light in the top left hand corner of the picture. I'm an excellent photographer. Not. For the four pictures you see posted here, I probably took twenty.

This was taken at the end of my driveway, looking west.

This is looking east. When I took these pictures Sunday afternoon, it was cold, clear and sunny.

For this picture, I stood on the patio, just outside the back door. The field just behind the line of trees is where we see squirrels, deer, and if you believe my middle son, the occasional coyote.

Here is the link to the first post on my blog. It wasn't that long ago, just from April, 2007. I don't think I've grown much since then, although I have learned to post clickable pictures thanks to Laurie. (Not that I always do.) Oh, and people actually read my posts now. That first post? Not one comment.

Go on over and see my fellow Okie, Vicki, to check out the rest of the list. It'll be fun!

*****************************************************************

Here's something else I learned from Laurie: A gratuitous puppy pic. Maddy needs her sleep.

Fun Monday #7 is a Gem

2008-01-14T08:23:00.001-06:00

This week's Fun Monday is hosted by Ann over at For the Long Run. She is one of my favorite blog buddies, and her idea to share a website that changed our lives is so clever.

My mother is a serious collector of antiques. Red kitchen items from the '40s, old cast iron, anything related to the Oklahoma frontier, furniture, several patterns of dishes, and so many other things I cannot remember them all.

One of her obsessions is a pattern made by the defunct ceramic and pottery company, Harker Pottery, U.S.A. The company was established around 1857 in Ohio and operated until 1972. The pattern is called "Dainty Flower" and is part of the company's Cameoware line. Mama collects the blue and white version. It is a popular pattern that began with a very art deco design and then morphed into something called the shell shape by collectors.

One year, probably about ten or eleven years ago, she was looking for this pattern and having a hard time finding it. Her mother, who died when she was three, had some pieces of this pattern and my mother had decided to collect a complete set. I started looking for a nice piece for her birthday. I went to all of my usual antiques haunts, hit the thrift stores, and even tried shopping garage and estate sales in older, established neighborhoods. Nothing. Nada. Not even one piece.

My husband is a techie and he had been using the internet for a good while by this time. I think it was probably about 1997 or 1998. He suggested I go online and do a search for the pattern or any information about it. I had no idea what he was talking about. He logged on to our (incredibly slow) dial-up connection and went to a search engine to teach me how to conduct a search. I think it was Alta Vista that we used.

What he found was this little gem of a site, a virtual store on the internet that dealt solely in antiques. I was shocked such a thing existed. It was a revelation. I could shop for my mother's hard to find antique collectibles at our desk! Without leaving the house! Without wasting gallons and gallons of gas! I was in heaven.

Since then, I've moved on to an array of online businesses that range from Amazon and ebay to clothing stores, toy stores, pet stores and little tiny places that sell vintage stereos, or golf equipment, or musical instruments or theater costumes. I even have a Harker pattern of my own that I collect and use for our every day dishes.

I am the rare woman who absolutely hates to shop. But when I can do it in my pajamas from the comfort of my sofa, it's not so bad.

My husband is sorry he ever showed me how to use a search engine.

Fun Monday #6: From Zero to Four in Record Time

2008-01-07T00:01:00.001-06:00

Our lovely hostess, Lisa, wants to meet the pets. A little more than a year ago, this would have been a hard one for me. We had no pets for a long time. Our house was full to the brim with our children and our possessions and our children's possessions. I didn't want to be bothered with feeding animals, grooming animals, or taking animals to the vet. I was busy. My husband was busy. The children . . . well, the children didn't get a vote.

I changed my mind at the most inconvenient time. Well, my mind was changed for me, but that's another story. Courtesy of my parents, we ended up with two little kittens. At the time, we were in the middle of moving. Our house was on the market and my husband was living in a three bedroom, two bath, third floor walk-up. The kids and I spent part of our time driving on the turnpike to see him, carrying these two little ones back and forth:

They are brother and sister. The little yellow one, the male, was so sick he almost died. He weighed fourteen ounces the first time we took him to the vet. His sister weighed eighteen ounces.

Now, this big guy is over eight pounds. Our lovely daughter, with her odd, dramatic streak, dubbed him Streudel.

And this pretty girl named Lucy now weighs just over four pounds. She's quite delicate. This is her favorite place in the house, right on top of our fridge. Her reasons will become quite clear when you see what we got next.

We enjoyed the cats so much and found they really weren't much trouble. One day, my husband and I watched as our then eight year old son kept his distance from the neighbor's dog. He was clearly interested, but watched from across the street as the other children petted the dog and played with him. Later on, we asked him why, and he informed us that he couldn't touch a dog because of his allergies. In a very pitiful way. That's when we decided to get a puppy for Christmas, one that wouldn't shed and cause the little guy to have allergy problems. That is how Jack came into our lives.

He is about four months old here. I can't describe how much he changed our lives. The children love him. I love him. My husband pretends he doesn't, but he loves Jack, too. Below is a shot of Jack, laying in his favorite spot: my husband's lap.

As Jack grew, we decided he needed a companion. Mostly to keep him from killing the cats. Lucy had taken to hiding somewhere high all day, not coming out to socialize with me until I had crated Jack at night. Streudel played with Jack, but spent a lot of his time jumping up onto railings and counters and furniture.

This is Maddy, the day we brought her home. She was eight weeks old. Jack went nuts. He barked at her most of that afternoon. It wasn't until the next day he figured out that she would play with him.

And this is Maddy now, about seventeen weeks old. She needs a haircut, but isn't she adorable?

Even though we've only had Maddy about two months, she and Jack are already inseparable. They nap together and play together. Most of the time, they forget all about the cats, which makes for much happier kitty cats. I'd say that we're just one big, happy family.

That's how we went from one pet to four in under eighteen months. I thought I'd lost my mind for a while, but we wouldn't trade them for anything now.

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris

2008-01-03T14:55:00.000-06:00

Excited is not a strong enough word to describe our lovely daughter's reaction to Notre-Dame Cathedral. When she was a little girl, one of her favorite movies was set here. Being a Disney animated movie, the detail in the film was pulled directly from the cathedral and brought the setting to life for my little girl at the tender age of four or five, long before she had dreams of speaking French and walking the streets of Paris.

These figures, or others like them, came to life and had sly conversations about Quasi Modo and his adventures with Esmerelda. Our lovely daughter was delighted to see that the cathedral really housed such statues.

Even the gargoyles had their parts. Three of them were Quasi Modo's best friends in the film. The look on her face when she saw the first of the gargoyles on the facade was priceless. Even after eleven or twelve years, she was still in awe of the way the animators had brought the cathedral to life.

I asked her to pose before we went in. I adore this picture. You can see how much joy she's feeling from the look on her face.

We walked slowly through the cathedral after we entered, looking at the breathtaking French Gothic interior. The most beautiful statue of Joan of Arc I have ever seen resides in the cathedral's sanctuary.

The stained glass throughout is gorgeous. This rose window in particular is breathtaking.

Much of the story in the movie takes place in the South Tower which houses a 13 ton bell called Emmanuel. This bell chimes the hours of the day. It is now rung using machinery, but for hundreds of years was rung by hand as it is in the movie. As we stood in line to go into the tower, mist began to fall. Once inside we were glad for the dryness and the relative warmth. We climbed the winding stairs all the way to the top so my daughter could see the bell room and the bell itself. The higher we walked, the stronger the wind became. As we ascended, the stairs became smaller and more curved. It felt almost as if you were climbing around a pole. I remember slowing down because I was becoming dizzy.

She was not disappointed. This is the best shot of her I was able to take in the bell tower. You can see how the wind is whipping her hair across her face. I had to hold the camera well away from me in order to keep my hair from covering the lens of the camera. It was worth all the trouble, though. I wish that you could hear her giggling. The bell tower enchanted her.

The view was fabulous. If it had been a beautiful, calm day, I think we would have spent hours taking pictures and exploring the tower. As it was, we stayed just as long as we could stand the cool, damp air and the wind.

There wasn't a moment of Paris that disappointed, but for our lovely daughter, this day was one of the best.

Fun Monday #5: Revealing My Shameful Addiction

2007-12-31T00:13:00.001-06:00

Peter asked us to put the Fun into Fun Monday. However, I am revealing my terrible, hidden addiction to you here today. When I indulge myself, I sometimes get lost for hours. The breakfast dishes sit undone, the laundry molds in the washing machine, and back when I worked, I would occasionally close the door to my office and pretend to be in a meeting. Toward the end of my working days, I did this to cope. Sometimes for hours. That is how I became the pathetic user you find before you today.

It is a truly terrifying addiction, a time drain to rival all time drains. There is nothing else on which I willingly waste so much of my own precious time. It is a sick and twisted diversion.

Here are some of my favorites:

I couldn't pick just one. It's an illness, I tell you. Someone please save me.

too many days of Christmas

2007-12-28T04:26:00.001-06:00

After making my blog rounds yesterday, I feel quite lucky. Over at Laurie's, I read about P. Miller's life-threatening blizzard ordeal. Almost the entire family was sick at the Nekked Lizard household, and poor Jenny spent a couple of hours sick in a gas station just to travel home and find out her adorable offspring contracted double conjunctivitis. My little cold is hardly worth mentioning.

The little guy still believes in Santa. I think. The alternative is that he knows the truth and is playing along for effect. Or he may possibly be gathering intelligence. He left Santa a note. It was simple, a question about the order in which the reindeer are harnessed to the sleigh. After consulting hubby, I disguised my handwriting to the best of my ability, answered his question, and put the note down next to the empty milk mug and a plate containing the last snickerdoodle, half eaten. I stuffed the stockings and left unwrapped gifts from Santa for the children in front of the fireplace before retiring for the night: jewelry for our lovely daughter, a stereo for the big guy and a Nintendo DS Lite for the little guy.

We got up very early Christmas Eve morning to the Santa presents and bulging stockings. We celebrated early to accommodate Christmas Day travel. Last year the family came to us, so this year, it was our turn to do the drive on Christmas morning.

After tearing through the wrapped packages, we had our traditional baked French toast for breakfast with a side of the chocolate candy that Santa left in the children's stockings. It was a lovely, leisurely day. The children enjoyed newly acquired Christmas gifts while hubby and I lounged on the sofa. We ate when we felt hungry and slept when the mood struck.

Christmas morning found us on the turnpike, driving to the home of hubby's sister. We arrived with presents, food, children and dogs in tow. Jack and Maddy went straight to the backyard, to avoid my sister-in-law's newly laid wood floors (which are indeed quite gorgeous). Present opening was the first item on the agenda. The older children are getting hard to by for, and my in-laws opted for gift cards and Amazon Wish List items. The little guy is still tons of fun. He got video games, lego sets, and multiple nerf weapons. When the nerf guns were opened, we ran the boys, young and old, outside to shoot each other with abandon. Afterward everyone but me settled down to watch a movie. The weather was beautiful. My brother-in-law built his wife a lovely covered patio this summer and equipped it with a stereo, sun blind, and comfy furniture. I sat in the shade, had a drink, and watched Jack and Maddy run through the back yard in the sun.

My brother-in-law grilled prime rib and we had all the trimmings along with it for our Christmas dinner. My contribution was dessert: crustless brownie pie and Southern pecan pie. Everything was delicious. A wonderful Christmas, wouldn't you agree?

But we're not done. My father volunteered to work Christmas Day. There are younger mothers and fathers in his department, and since we became adults with families of our own, he frequently takes holiday shifts to give those parents the holiday with their children. He works for an airline on systems that support an important computer resource for the industry, something that runs 24 hours per day, seven days per week. It is sweet of him, but not altogether altruistic: he receives extra pay and once the holiday has passed, extra time off the job. As a result, we aren't celebrating the holiday with my parents until tomorrow.

Saturday will be our third celebration. The sheer volume of presents that my children receive is unbelievable. My husband has one nephew who is twenty-one years old. My brother has never married and has no children. The adults on both sides shower my children with an obscene amount of Christmas loot.

I am holidayed out. I dread the drive to my parents house. My husband and I will be trapped in our car with two teenagers, a suddenly whiny nine year old, and two schnauzers for just over two hours. That is not the worst of it. My parents want us to stay overnight. I suspect that a tour of the ice damage is planned. I would rather have every tooth in my head pulled. Sans sedative. This tour would involve approximately 1,000 acres. Daddy thinks he lost trees that will translate into twelve ricks of wood once he has converted the fallen trees into neat stacks of firewood. I love my parents. But I am living proof that you can take the country out of the girl.

On the bright side, I do have to say we have had a few quiet, relaxing days. One day my husband and I spent the bulk of the day sitting on the sofa watching the snow fall softly on our backyard. It was quite a pretty sight, especially with a fire roaring in the fireplace. Yesterday I caught up on my Tivo viewing while hubby played his favorite video game. The boys are so engrossed with their Christmas loot that they aren't fighting, and our lovely daughter has been busy working, sleeping, and doing whatever 17 year old girls do. If Christmas celebrations were over, life would be pretty perfect.

the best bookstore in Paris

2007-12-20T22:10:00.000-06:00

In the pictures above, on the corner across the street, you see before you the most magnificent bookstore in all of Paris. I'm getting a little ahead of myself, though.

My lovely daughter and I got up early for a day alone on the streets of Paris. The weather wasn't cooperating with our planned shopping excursion to Montmartre, so we came up with another plan. We took the Metro from Oberkampf to Opera and walked to the high rise shops called Galeries Lafayette. The shops are situated near the perfume factory we had visited earlier in the week and the gorgeous Opera Garnier. We had lunch that day in the cafeteria on the top floor of the high rise and had wanted to go back to wander through all the lovely things we saw on our ride up the escalator.

I'm not a shopper, as I am sure I've mentioned here before, probably multiple times. My lovely daughter got her shopping gene as well as mine and maybe those of two or three other people in the family. We stopped and looked at each and every little stand displaying wares for sale. There were items as diverse as scarves, souveniers, women's shoes, towel wraps for your hair, and children's toys. I think it took us an hour to walk from the Metro stop to the Galeries Lafayette.

Once inside, we marvelled at all the beautiful things available for purchase. There were six or seven floors, each one filled with gorgeous goods, like an upscale department store, but French. As we ascended, we looked at things to purchase for my daughter or to take home with us, and we looked just to look. My daughter had me take pictures of these lovely designer gowns so that I could try to recreate them for her next dance or prom. They both cost more than a small used car. You should have seen the prices on the wedding gowns.

She wanted a coat. We began looking in an area that we thought was the juniors department. We were on a floor of designer clothing, and the prices were more than we wanted to pay. Some of them much more. But she continued to look and as we made our way around the floor, we came to a designer who specialized in more affordable clothing for young women. There she found a little trench coat she loved, just longer than a mini skirt in a soft army green. It is beautifully cut and fits her well. She is wearing the coat below in a picture taken at the gate of the Tuilleries Gardens. (Her aunt says this picture is very "Madeleine, the teenage years").

We bought shoes, dresses, some tops, teal blue tights, a couple of lovely patterned silk scarves for me, and little presents for her brothers and father, my parents and my mother-in-law. The escalators ran all the way to the roof of the building, for gorgeous views of Paris. Even though the day was overcast and gray, you could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

We had a fantastic time, but we were tired and needed sustenance. After a meal in the Lafayette Caffe followed by ridiculously decadent desserts, we decided to return to the hotel. As we watched the underground world of the Metro pass us by, we discussed our purchases. My lovely daughter realized she had forgotten one important thing: a French language dictionary and a book, about third grade level or so, that she could use to improve her French reading and vocabulary skills. She thought that someone in a bookstore might be able to help her choose well. We were leaving in just a few days and might not have much more free time. I remembered that first day we had seen what looked like a charming little bookstore near the hotel. It was still open when we passed by on our way to the hotel from Oberkampf Station, so we rushed to the hotel and took our bags and parcels to our room. We ran back down the three flights of stairs and out the door, walking the two or three city blocks and crossing Boulevard Voltaire to get to the book store, Paperterie Appel Librairie, which I think is literally translated "stationery call bookshop".

We had stopped in the little grocery for drinks and as we walked in, we carried them with us. A man about my age spoke to us sharply in French. We did not understand. My daughter said, "Pardon?" He immediately recognized that we weren't French and said in his heavily accented English that drinks weren't allowed in the store. He walked over to where we stood and took them from us, placing them on his counter for us to retrieve when we were ready to leave. A woman who we supposed to be his wife asked if we needed help. She had dark, short curly hair and dark eyes. She was impeccably dressed and groomed, and reminded me of a grown up version of the French exchange student in Better Off Dead. My daughter spoke to her in schoolgirl French, asking for a good dictionary and a book recommendation. There was much back and forth, and a young girl not much older than my daughter came from the back and started to speak to us in excellent English. The older woman walked away and busied herself at a shelf of books.

My lovely daughter settled on a small, thick dictionary, one that was recommended by the young girl, Larousse dictionnaire français-anglais. She held a stack of children's books in her hands, trying to decide which interested her most. She has been a Harry Potter fan from a young age, and the book she selected, Ma soeur est une sorcière, translates literally to "my sister is a sorceress". Perfect. I selected a note pad printed with fleur de lis in a subtle pattern.

We took our selections to the front of the little shop and put them on the counter. The woman reappeared with a book in her hand. She conversed with my daughter in English, searching carefully for her words. The book was a gift for my daughter, for her to read when she mastered reading books in French. The title is one of the woman's latest favorites, hygiène de l'assassin (hygiene of the assassin). She wanted my lovely daughter to have the book because it pleased her that "this sweet American youth" was studying the French language.

The gift was surprising and delightful. It made me teary eyed that a complete stranger would have such a reaction to my daughter's quest to master French. There are wonderful people all over the world. Two of them own a bookstore on the corner of Boulevard Voltaire and Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud in Paris.

a stroll through the Louvre

2007-12-19T14:41:00.000-06:00

Touring the Louvre Museum was the absolute highlight of our trip to Paris for me. I don't have the words to describe the breathtaking, utterly amazing collection. My photographs don't do it justice, but I'll share them with you anyway. These are some of the wonderful things we saw in the two days we spent touring the halls of musée du Louvre.

A view of the pyramid as we arrived. I think this was on the second day. The first day, it was raining, and we entered from the Metro through an attached shopping mall. We arrived so early that day, we did not have to wait in line to enter the museum. When we began walking in the corridors, they were nearly deserted. I was in heaven.

One of the corridors as seen from a staircase. Every inch of the museum is lovely.

There is an exhibit in the basement of the Louvre that details the history of the building. This is from inside, part of the original structure, a fortress that dates to the twelfth century. The showy palace that you see from outside was added much later.

I love this majestic lion. He is a Roman antiquity, fashioned of green basanite and yellow marble.

This flaxen funerary hanging, Death Between Osiris and Anubis, depicts Osiris, the departed, and Anubis. The arm that Anubis extends offers protection in the afterlife.

The title of this lovely piece is Psyche revived by the kiss of Love. It is one of my favorite sculptures that we saw. This photo simply does not do it justice.

There were many gorgeous vessels such as this amphora.

An unwrapped mummy. My lovely daughter thought it quite funny that he was draped in that fashion.

Dircé, wife of Lycus and devotee of Dionysus. In Greek mythology, Lycus was a ruler of ancient Thebes. She was sculpted by Bartoli, a Florentine artist between 1824 and 1834.

Mercury, messenger of the Gods, by Giambologna, about 1608.

Egyptian jewelry

An incredibly detailed mummy of a pharaoh, though I don't remember which one. Notice the intricate pattern on the face.

The goddess Nut raising the sun, engraved on the basalt lid of the sarcophagus of Djedhor, a Pharaoh of Egypt's Thirtieth Dynasty. He came to power in 362 B.C.

I don't remember who this guy is anymore, but isn't he fabulous?

In the Denon Wing, we saw many students copying the great masters. My favorite was an old man copying a beautiful Italian painting, but for some reason I cannot find a picture of him. Their work was always quite amazing.

Egyptian artifacts

I could have spent the entire available time walking through the galleries of the Louvre. We saw parts of two wings, the lobby and the gift shop. I suppose I'll just have to go back.

On Fun Monday #4, I Break the Rules a Little

2007-12-17T09:02:00.001-06:00

This week, our Fun Monday hostess is kitten. She is interested in finding out more about our homes. Her assignment is:

I think it would be neat to hear about the story behind your home and the road you live on. It doesn't have to be historical, maybe just something that stands out to you. It would be nice to have pictures to go with your little story. I also would like to know who has the oldest house. Whoever has the oldest house will get a little Christmas treat from little ole me.

I've written about my home before. In fact, finding a new home was a significant focus of my blog back in the early days (not so long ago). There are posts about searching for a place to live, and posts about the move. I even wrote about the day I found out we were going to have to find a new home. I think I've exhausted this subject.

Instead, I'm going to write about the little house that was our home for twelve years.

I had just turned twenty-seven a couple of weeks before we moved in. It was the first home I'd owned in Oklahoma, my home state, since moving to Kansas at the tender age of 22. We had moved frequently, making our home in places as diverse as Topeka, Kansas, Lee's Summit, Missouri, Newport News, Virginia, and Aiken, South Carolina. The older two children were small, my little boy still in a crib. Even though they were small, the moving was already becoming difficult, and it was time to settle down.

The little house was painted a garish, 1980s country blue when we bought it. Inside, the walls were covered in wallpaper in the style of the time, with even the light switch plates covered. The paper in the kitchen was done in two matching prints, a large version below the chair rail and a smaller one above it. There was more country blue in the background for the wallpaper of the main bath, which was covered in dusty rose colored posies. It was hideous. The wallpaper in the master bathroom was the only one I could stand, and even that was outdated, a cream colored paper printed with flowers and a shiny stripe. It looked like a country magazine had thrown up all over the walls.

The house was located in an excellent school district. It was on a large corner lot, with trees in front and back. The high vaulted ceilings made the living areas and the master bedroom seem larger than they were. I loved the bay windows that looked out into the back yard. The open floor plan was exactly what I was looking for, and despite the horrid wallpaper, the bones of the house were good, with upgraded countertops in the kitchen and baths, gorgeous built in bookshelves and woodwork and a lovely master suite. I moved in thinking that we'd stay a few years, maybe five, tops.

I got to work, stripping wallpaper, painting, and replacing light fixtures that dated from about 1986. They were uglier than the wallpaper. There was a large dog run along the back of the house that I tore down one summer day while the children napped. My husband tore up carpet in the main bath and linoleum in the kitchen. He replaced it with tile he laid himself, learning how to do it from a book we bought at Home Depot. We ripped ugly, neglected bushes out of the flower beds in front of the house, enlarged the beds and reshaped them. We replaced the bushes with lovely double flowering azaleas. Then replaced them again with something else equally ambitious. And finally settled on boxwood,crimson barberry and a little ornamental peach tree with a carpet of creeping jenny.

Our lovely daughter's room went through several incarnations in that twelve years. The ones I remember most vividly are her garden room and her "grown up" room. I can't find a picture of the garden room, but imagine white French furniture with gold accents, linens reminiscent of a Monet garden painting, palest pink walls and a rose vine trailing its way from the base of the door up to the ceiling and around the whole room. The grown up room, which she loved, wasn't very girly at all.

The boys' room started out life as a red and white nursery for one and ended up a jungle room for two. My little guy still asks to see pictures of their jungle room and has selected animal print linens for his new room here.

We put our hearts, our sweat and our tears into that little house. Up until we moved in August of 2006, it was the only home my children had ever known. Our youngest came home from the hospital to that house we had remodeled and reshaped with our own hands.

We never did get around to replacing the horrible carpet. When we first moved, my lovely daughter told me the thing she missed most about the house was the old, ugly blue carpet. It was our home. We still miss it. But now I think it's just the idea of the house we miss.

And I, for one, don't miss that blue carpet at all.

Images of the Ice

2007-12-12T00:09:00.001-06:00

The ice will be gone today or Thursday. Most of the ice on the lawn is already gone, partially melted by the rain on Tuesday and partially by the high temperature of 39 degrees fahrenheit. Our forecast is for scattered showers and 36 degrees fahrenheit today. On Thursday, we are expecting sun and 45 degrees fahrenheit, but another storm system is headed this way on Friday. This time, the forecast is snow.

The power outages rose to 618,000 customers statewide today. Almost 251,000 of those are in and around Oklahoma City. This outage is the worst in the state's history. A similar storm in 2002 left about 250,000 without power at the height of the power problems. All 77 counties in Oklahoma have been touched. The current occupant has declared our lovely state a disaster area. Today the power companies held a press conference to say some of those poor people may be without power for a week to ten days, despite the fact that help is being brought in from out of state.

Even though we've had a couple of 30 second outages that made me hold my breath, we still have power. Several of my husband's coworkers who live no more than one or two miles to the east of us weren't so lucky. And because their homes are all electric and serviced by electric powered rural water wells, they have no power, heat or water and have had to leave their homes.

Soon the picturesque ice that has caused all the problems will be gone, so I thought I'd share a few more shots from my neighborhood.

A stand of trees on the east side of our front yard.

Our mail box.

The blackjack oak in the middle of our front yard.

The little junipers in front of my bedroom window. I wonder if they'll recover.

Another shot of the stand of trees on the east.

One of the lights that marks our driveway.

A tree from the back yard.

There are some wonderful photo slide shows of pictures residents have sent into the television stations. You can see pictures of the damage as well as some really beautiful shots of ice covering trees, bushes, furniture, houses, and statues. If you'd like to view them, go here. My kids will return to school tomorrow and our life will be essentially normal. There are many residents here who won't be so lucky. Keep them in your thoughts.

ice, ice, everywhere

2007-12-11T00:01:00.001-06:00

We are having a big ice storm. The deluge started Saturday night with freezing rain followed by sleet and a few snow flurries. On Sunday morning, before the roads were too bad, my husband drove me to the grocery and the hardware store for supplies. I loaded up on kiddo food and canned goods plus milk, eggs and bread. We bought de-icer, ice melt for the sidewalks and driveway, and a key for the gas fireplace at the hardware store. The kids were out of school on Monday, and they're out again today. We are lucky; Monday morning the news programs were reporting 137,000 customers without power in the state. Now, that number is up to 500,000, but our power is still on. (Knocking wood as I type.)

My parents have no water or electricity and are staying at a hotel for the next two or three days. We haven't been able to reach my husband's mother, but we're fairly sure she is with his sister. The power outages are particularly bad in Tulsa this time. The Tulsa International Airport was completely without power on Monday and is expected to be today as well. One of the water processing plants has no power and Tulsans have been asked to conserve water.

Ice is dangerous and brutal. There have been twelve deaths as a result of traffic accidents since the ice started just in the Oklahoma City area and another death from exposure. Monday morning I heard that the Oklahoma Highway Patrol and the OKC police had responded to more than 100 accidents. I'm sure by now it's many more.

Our neighbors two doors down lost one of the big trees in their back yard. Luckily, it didn't fall on their house or the shop. I spoke to my father, who lives about 140 miles north of us, and he's lost so many trees on his land that he thinks he'll have about twelve ricks of wood to cut when the storm and its aftermath are over. It's no wonder the trees are coming down.

The ice is thick on everything. When I took the dogs out Monday morning in the ice covered grass, I laughed so hard I nearly cried. Jack gingerly picked his way across the yard, refusing to pee until we found some soft grass under the blackjack oak. Maddy didn't really walk across the yard. Once we were off the patio, she jumped and hopped. I think she was trying to get across the ice, thinking if she hopped just once more, things would return to normal. It was one of the funniest things I've ever seen a dog do.

Our yard backs up to a hay field. We haven't yet put up a fence, so the back of our yard is still marked by barbed wire. Just behind the fence there are little trees and bushes. They are all covered with ice and glistened in the little bit of sun that broke through the clouds.

The ice is on everything. I couldn't open the doors of my car this morning, even with de-icer. I had to resort to heat and a windshield scraper. Icicles hang in a thick fringe from the eaves. We had to pull one of the trash cans inside the garage and let it thaw just to take the trash out of the house. The little bushes in the front yard are so heavy with ice they are bending to touch the ground.

More freezing rain was forecast for Tuesday, but at 11:30pm the temperature in the Oklahoma City metro was 34 degrees F. It looks like the worst of it is behind us. For this storm, anyway.

My lovely daughter turns seventeen years old today. She told me she thought the weather turned at just the right time. Late enough that school was called off . . . so she gets a snow day for her birthday.

Fun Monday #3: I blew my whole Christmas decorating budget on one little train

2007-12-10T00:04:00.001-06:00

This week's Fun Monday is hosted by katyabug. It is a fun and simple assignment:

In the spirit of the season I would like to see your favorite Christmas tree ornament. Not to be confused with the WHOLE tree. I want you to zoom in and show me one or a few(you know I can't choose just one!) of your favorite ornaments. If you don't decorate a tree, show me your menorah or dreidel, Kinara, or Yule Log. I want to see your favorite decoration for this holiday season.

I went with a decoration rather than an ornament. This is my favorite Christmas item. I must have been about twenty years old, maybe twenty-one. I was working in the human resources department of a large employer in Tulsa. It was the late eighties, I was going to put up my first Christmas tree of my own, and I didn't have one ornament. I had allowed myself a budget of about fifty dollars for the tree and decorations. One of the ladies I worked with was selling Christmas decorations that she had made. They were beautiful and I fell in love with them. One in particular caught my eye. It was lovely, seven pieces, all hand painted, with a Christmas tree that actually lit up. The price was $50. Because each item was hand made, she required orders to be placed in October and payment up front. I had never spent $50 on anything outside of my wedding dress before. Back at the time, my weekly grocery budget was just $40. I ordered it anyway. I'm so glad I did. We still enjoy it today as much as I did that first Christmas, when it was the only Christmas decoration in my house.

a very full day

2007-12-07T09:07:00.001-06:00

Yesterday was an unusual day. It was hectic and full and required me to wear heels. I drove to our old hometown, leaving our house at 6:00am, for an appearance in court. I arrived in good time for the 8:30am appearance and promptly signed in, just to sit and wait until almost 11:00am. Much back and forth, negotiating, and red tape. I actually appeared before the judge at around 1:00pm, with no break for lunch. I was famished and the room was cold as an ice box. The judge, however, was lovely. I was sworn in and answered two questions in about four minutes. Hardly worth the drive.

The really harrowing part was sitting in the crowded and too warm waiting room for so long. Court rooms and their waiting areas, especially in larger cities, are not very pleasant places. No one who works there seems to know anything at all except for the judge. Some of the people I dealt with looked like they were half asleep. I do try never to generalize, but I think government workers get a bad rap for reasons based in reality. No food, no drink and I really think they would prefer that you don't talk or breathe as it's inconvenient for them. There was one bit of excitement. A woman of about thirty stormed into the room through one door, practially ran across the room to the exterior door and left in an obvious huff, cursing all the while. Some joker in the room made the comment that if she came back it would probably be with a gun. Those in the waiting room laughed. One of the ladies that worked in the office gave him a dirty look and got up to see if the woman drove away.

Afterward I drove to my favorite convenient store in the free world to fill the car with gas, buy a sandwich for lunch, and just breathe in the atmosphere. It's a silly thing to miss, but I do miss them, so much. They are clean, spacious, and well stocked. The gas pumps are covered generously, car port style, so that you can stay dry in the rain. The whole parking lot is lit up like day time at the first hint of darkness. The convenience stores here are mostly 7-11s and I just hate them. They are small and dirty and everything is crowded into a space that's far too small. I write the company back home and tell them how wonderful they are each time I visit, then beg them to build one here. In between visits, I get used to the stores here and forget just how great the ones I left really are.

By the time I arrived home, the boys were home from school. The dogs nearly knocked me down when I walked in the door, they were so happy that I actually came back to them. I love that about dogs. The cats casually glanced my way and several hours later, came to sit on my lap and demand attention. My elder son was somberly practicing skateboard tricks on the driveway, running in and asking me to watch about every ten seconds. The little one did his homework and went next door to play.

The rest of the day was a blur of chores, homework, and dinner. It is a rare evening that we are all home together. My family chatted and laughed while I fed them quiche for dinner because the chicken was still frozen solid. I went to bed tired, but happy. And wondered how I ever managed to work and maintain a home at the same time.

Thanksgiving Day

2007-11-23T12:34:00.001-06:00

Note: This post was originally called Thanksgiving Preparations, but I have been so busy it never got posted. Better late than never, I say.

I am preparing Thanksgiving dinner for my parents, my family, and my daughter's best friend. We'll have turkey with giblet gravy and dressing, whole cranberry sauce, a potato casserole, a corn dish, two kinds of sweet potatoes, freshly baked crescent rollls, pumpkin pie, pecan pie and a relish tray filled with olives, pickles, deviled eggs and the like.

In the past I have searched recipes and tried variations of traditional fare. Some were successes, some were merely serviceable. This year, I let my husband and children decide the menu. Almost every recipe was something I can prepare mostly in advance. As I write this, my Thanksgiving dinner is two thirds prepared, and it is Wednesday evening. Tomorrow, I will get up and roast the turkey, make a fresh pumpkin pie, put finishing touches on the sweet potatoes and bake everything. It has been the easiest Thanksgiving meal I have ever cooked.

Roast Turkey

Combine 1 part sugar with 2 parts salt. Season to taste. I use sage and chili powder, about a tablespoon each. Mix well and rub over the skin of the turkey. Refrigerate the turkey overnight without covering. (I put parchment paper in the bottom crisper of my refrigerator and pop the turkey in with the rub applied to the bottom, then apply the rub to the rest of the body and return the crisper drawer to the fridge. It works like a charm.)

Remove turkey from the refrigerator in the morning and rub off the seasonings (do not rinse). Apply olive oil to the skin. Do not stuff. Place celery and carrot sticks in the bottom of the roasting pan. Halve an onion and slice; add it to the pan. Cover just the bottom of the roasting pan with chicken broth (about one cup). Place the turkey on top of the celery and carrots. Place in a 325 degree oven and roast for 3 to 4 hours, depending on size, until it reaches the desired internal temperature (I like 170 degrees). The skin will be crisp and beautifully browned. The dark meat will be cooked through and the breast meat will be moist. Every time.

I used to brine my turkey. This is much better and requires infinitely less preparation.

Traditional Southern Dressing

Brown one pound of bulk Italian sausage. Add a sweet onion, diced, and two stalks of celery, diced. Cook until the vegetables are tender. Drain. Return to flame and add four cups of chicken stock and two tablespoons of butter. Simmer while you prepare the bread.

Cube one 8" x 8" pan of cornbread. Add one tablespoon of rubbed sage. Combine with one 16 ounce package of herbed dressing mix (I use Pepperidge Farms). Add several tablespoons of chopped fresh parsley.

Combine sausage mixture and bread mixture. Mix well. Add chicken stock to achieve desired moistness. Turn out into buttered 3 quart casserole dish. Bake in 375 degree oven for 30 to 45 minutes.

I don't think I have ever made dressing the same way twice. This is the basic recipe I use. Sometimes I add chopped pecans or dried cranberries or both. My mother uses oysters and adds green peppers to the onion and celery. The result is always delicious.

Fresh Cranberry Sauce

Combine two cups of cranberries, one half cup of sugar, two tablespoons water, one tablespoon fresh orange juice, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon and a pinch of salt in a large, heavy saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until cranberries burst, about six to eight minutes. Serve warm or cold.

I like this spooned over vanilla ice cream when still warm.

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As it turns out, this really was the easiest Thanksgiving ever. I got up and put the turkey on to roast at 7:30am, then baked the pumpkin pie. I have two large ovens, so I could bake the dressing, potatoes, sweet potatoes and corn dish in one oven as the turkey finished roasting in the other. The crescent rolls were baked last while the table was filled with food. Dinner was served about 12:30pm. Everything was warm and everything was delicious. Best of all for me, it was easy since I did most of the work on Wednesday. The children cleaned up while I put away food. I spent the afternoon visiting with my parents and my husband. I don't ever remember having such a leisurely and pleasant Thanksgiving. Well, not when I was the one cooking, anyway.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

My First Fun Monday

2007-11-19T00:01:00.001-06:00

Karisma is hosting Fun Monday. All my blog friends have been participating for weeks and it looks like fun, so I decided to join in.

Karisma says:

I want you to take a trip down memory lane, and keep right on going, right back to your childhood. And I want to hear "THAT STORY". You remember the one? Yes, you do! The one your parents, siblings, extended family or friends, would never let you forget, live down or get over!"

Dead laptop equals no pictures of Kaycie as a kid.

But, there is absolutely no lack of embarrassing stories. In fact, I am having difficulty deciding which one to tell. The one where I fell from the swing set while showing off and cut my back open then cried, not because I was hurt, but because there was blood on my brand new sundress? Or the one where I ran up the stairs into the very clean, very closed sliding glass doors and did a somersault backwards . . . in a skirt . . . on Christmas Eve . . . in front of my father's entire family? The one where I told my parents the Sonic reached out and hit my truck? Or maybe the one where I put a hole into the hollow core bathroom door with a kitchen knife trying to get to my brother? No, definitely not that one. Hmmmm. I know.

I was eighteen years old and a senior in high school. My father had just bought me a new car. It was a Volkswagen Rabbit to replace the incredibly cool but ridiculously dangerous fiberglass Bradley GT Daddy gave me the summer I was sixteen. He wanted me to have something reliable to drive to college. It was blue, had a stereo and I could get more than one friend in it. I thought it was SO cool. There was just one problem: it had a standard transmission and I could not drive it.

I had been driving almost two years and drove about as well as any other teenage girl. Which means badly. My father never rode in a vehicle with me if he could help it. It always ended in him yelling and me crying. However, my mother did not drive a standard, so it fell to him to teach me.

The Rabbit was parked in the driveway. I got into the driver's seat and my 6' 2", 225 pound father folded his big frame into the passenger seat. I remember being amused because the top of his hat touched the ceiling and even with the seat all the way back, his knees were almost touching the dash. He told me to start the car. Without depressing the clutch (!), I turned the key. The car lurched forward and died. It came to rest on top of the air compressor that was between the car and the house, the front bumper pressed against the siding on the house. It was a miracle nothing was damaged. I immediately asked Daddy why the car was in gear. In a snotty, teenaged girl kind of way. For some reason I thought the car should have been in neutral because the parking brake was set. Choice words came out of his mouth and there was something said about me being ignorant of driving and a smart ass on top of it. Anyway, we went around the block a couple of times without me killing the car and Daddy called it done. I am sure it was to keep from murdering me.

Later that evening, my mother sent me to the store to get some cheese for the tacos she was making for dinner. Daddy decided I should take the Rabbit for practice and sent my brother with me to help me through shifting gears. My fifteen year old brother. Yeah. That didn't work out so well for us.

After much fussing (me) and threatening to walk (my brother), we finally made it the six or seven miles to the grocery store. My brother complimented me on driving through the parking lot without killing the car. It was most definitely sarcasm. The grocery store was just south of the Sonic and they both sat right off Interstate 169 which ran through the middle of town. After successfully buying cheese and starting the car, I turned out of the parking lot headed north, and just as we were passing the Sonic, an enormous rendering truck ran the stop sign on the other side of the street and hit the Rabbit right in the driver's side door. The impact of the accident threw the car into the driveway of the Sonic. I'd had the Rabbit three days.

My brother remembers having his eyes clenched tightly, afraid to look. Without opening his eyes, he said my name. I didn't answer. He said my name again, louder. Silence. After a few seconds, he got the courage to open his eyes to look my way. The door was standing wide open and I wasn't answering him because I was gone. He got out of the car, stood up, and looked at the truck that had hit us.

I was about 5' 4" then and 110 pounds soaking wet. I had climbed up onto the running board of the truck and was furiously yelling at the guy who had hit us, waving my finger in his face. My brother says it went something like: "Don't you know what that stop sign means? I have had that car three days! Three days! My Daddy is going to kill you when he gets here, you just wait!"

I yelled at him until someone came up and gently led me away. Nowata is a small place, and the people who owned the Sonic knew who we were. They called Mom and Dad who were there in no time. The police barely beat them. The guy driving the truck tried to blame me for the accident. Shrinking violet that I am, I began yelling again.

Anytime that anyone in my family talks about accidents, sooner or later (usually sooner), someone tells this story. My parents seem to take special pleasure in telling it now that I have a teenager driving. My brother, of course, laughs with glee, then tells anyone present how he was scared for his life anytime he was forced to get into a vehicle with me. The jerk.

My husband takes this story as evidence that I have never been smart enough to be afraid of anything or anyone.

Hey, at least I can take care of myself.

Our Town

2007-10-30T22:45:00.000-05:00

The play was really wonderful. All of the kids were fantastic in their roles. Kevin, the young man who played the stage manager and narrated the play was amazing. Sometimes when you see kids take on a play as sophisticated and stylized as "Our Town", the result is lackluster. But this young man committed himself to the role and had no inhibitions about the way he might appear onstage. He set the tone for the whole play. I was impressed.

The play is staged with minimal sets and no props. Our lovely daughter came down a set of stairs to the raised platform holding a table and chairs that served as her home. She pantomimed her way through making breakfast as Kevin narrated the scene. When she called to her "children" halfway through the scene, I was startled by her voice. She had changed her intonation and meter, and she sounded almost matronly. My husband leaned over and said, "She sounds just like you."

Apparently women spent a lot of time snapping beans at the turn of the century. And cooking. Other than attending her "daughter's" wedding and funeral, our lovely daughter and the other young lady playing a mother were cooking or snapping beans most of the time they were on stage.

A heart to heart with her daughter, about falling in love. (They talk while snapping beans, of course.)

The mother of the bride had a little monologue. Standing on stage in the spotlight, she voiced her concerns, worries and hopes for her daughter's impending marriage.

I don't have a good shot of it, but one of the most poignant moments in the play, for me anyway, came during the funeral scene in the third act. My daughter had no lines, but she was grieving, held in the arms of her daughter's husband. I could see her shoulders shaking. She was clutching at the young man's shoulders as he held her and seemed to whisper in her ear. I was quite surprised how much emotion she was able to convey with her back to the audience.

It was only later that she told me the young man spent the entire time telling her that he had killed his wife, and how, varying his method during each funeral scene. She was laughing, and trying desperately not to laugh out loud.

When the poor, dead girl left her grave and returned home to re-experience her twelfth birthday, it was heart wrenching. I have to admit to shedding a few tears.

"Way down deep, there is something that's eternal about every human being." Indeed.

This shot is of the entire cast and the crew. Our lovely daugher is middle left in her mama costume.

wild kingdom

2007-10-29T22:20:00.001-05:00

Autumn has finally arrived here in The Sooner State. Night temperatures have dropped into the high thirties and during the day we're not quite reaching the seventies. I am in heaven. This is perfect weather for me, and we get it all too rarely.

At this time last year we had just settled into the old house in town. It was spacious with a big yard and a wonderful large living area upstairs with the bedrooms, complete with a little kitchenette. The house was dated but so livable that I didn't mind at all. We had two cats and two bettas, but hadn't yet gotten Jack. Life was much . . . quieter.

We got Jack last December, and we lost one of the bettas after the move. Instead of another one, we got a larger tank and got Nemo, the remaining fish, an African Dwarf Frog and a golden colored snail for tank mates. That frog is the cutest dang thing you've ever seen. I love feeding him. He pops up to the top and snatches food so quickly you miss it if you blink. It's almost like watching a cartoon frog catch a fly with his tongue.

The back yard is full of rabbits, squirrels, blue jays, cardinals, all manner of finches and a pair of red bellied woodpeckers. I love feeding the birds. Every few days we see deer walking through the field behind our yard. There are five of them, and three are small, probably born this past spring. As soon as the weather cooled, I put out suet and seed in feeders in our blackjack oak tree. The blackjack oak is native to Oklahoma and Texas in an area called Cross Timbers. It is a scruffy looking tree, especially when it's young. We have a large one in front, about 30 feet tall, and a small one in back, just about 10 feet tall, with a cedar tree next to it. The oaks can grow as high as 65 feet and live up to 400 years. Our trees are just babies.

All the wild life in the back yard gives Jack and the cats fits. Jack whines and yelps, racing from one window to another, keeping up with his latest sighting, usually a squirrel. The cats especially love watching the birds. They both make an odd little clicking or smacking noise when one of the birds gets close. It makes me laugh every time I hear them. There is a yellow cat that looks just like Streudel who wanders into our backyard every now and then. My heart always skips a beat until I find Streudel safe inside. Losing Lucy has made me paranoid.

On Sunday my husband and I were watching birds and squirrels in the back yard. I wanted him to look at a squirrel and a bluejay playing a game of chase. It was so funny to see the squirrel run for the bluejay, the bluejay take to the air, and the squirrel retreat back to the fence away from the tree. The bluejay would then swoop over the squirrel back onto the ground and they'd start all over again. They were fighting over seed that had fallen on the ground from my feeder. I was delighted. As I was watching and pointing this out, my husband started laughing. I wanted to know what was so funny. He said that he thinks it's hilarious that I am so interested in all the animals in our backyard. When I asked why, he told me it's pretty funny for a farm girl like me to be so easily amused. Hmph.

For those of you who were worried about it (or offered me alibis), I have not killed any of my children. It was touch and go there for a while, but I have managed to control myself. Just.

We have three children, two cats, one dog, one betta, one frog, one snail, and a back yard full of squirrels, rabbits, birds, and the occasional deer. No wonder my husband calls our new home Wild Kingdom.

happy birthday

2007-10-24T00:01:00.001-05:00

Today my baby boy is nine years old.

He arrived exactly a week before Halloween in 1998. At 4:15 in the morning. Three weeks early. Since the moment he arrived, he has been completely different from his brother and sister.

My first two arrived on time, one even arriving on his exact due date. They came into the world at perfectly reasonable times instead of putting me through night labor. They were easy, sweet babies that I nursed from the day they were born. They were both bald.

My youngest had a head full of thick, black hair when he was born and even three weeks early, he weighed seven pounds. He was jaundiced. The first time he nursed, he gave me a blood blister. On my breast. This is perhaps the most unpleasant thing imaginable. The nurses gave him suck therapy in the hospital. Suck therapy. I am not kidding. After we took him home, a home health nurse visited us to assist me with nursing. I thought it was ridiculous when it was scheduled. I had nursed two babies to their first birthday (well, one beyond, but that's another story); I was an old pro, what could they possibly teach me that I didn't know? Turns out, quite a lot. Tears ran down my face every time I nursed him for a week. I was so pitiful, the nurse came back. That time she brought a light for the jaundice that slipped underneath his little gown and made him look like a glow worm. He did sleep like a little angel.

He learned to nurse properly and the jaundice passed. Turns out that he was sleeping like an angel because he was jaundiced. Then he developed colic. I thought I was going to die. No, really, die. My husband would walk in the door from work, and I would almost throw a screaming baby into his arms, go into our bedroom, shut the door and run a bath. Then I would sit in the bath and bawl. For an hour.

That, too, eventually passed. And for a little guy that started out his life giving me nothing but trouble, he's given me joy ever since. He's sweet, sensitive, and mild tempered. He is as big as an ox. Huge. He towers over the other boys his age. He's only a foot shorter than his (admittedly not tall) fourteen year old brother. When I look at him I see his father's dimples and big brown eyes lined with heavy, long lashes. He has my chin, complete with a little cleft, and just a touch of my olive complexion. He is built just like my tall and slender husband, but he is bulkier, like my father. When I look closely, I notice he has my father-in-law's hands.

The baby in the picture is all but gone. There are fleeting glimpses now and again, in the way that he laughs childish giggles with his head thrown back, or the peculiar way he falls asleep with his feet tucked up under his tummy. I miss the tiny, chubby hands in mine and the way I used to be able to hold all of him curled in my lap. He is my last baby, and he's growing up. But I love the little boy he has become and I cannot wait to see the young man he will grow into, although I know even now that it will be a bittersweet journey.

cimetière visitant du Pere-Lachaise

2007-10-15T10:04:00.001-05:00

When I made a mental list of all the places in Paris a sixteen year old girl might want to visit, a cemetery did not make the cut, no matter how famous. Much to my surprise, Pere-Lachaise was high on my lovely daughter's list of places she could not miss.

I had always wanted to visit Jim Morrison's grave. I was something of a Doors fan in my teenage years. When the Val Kilmer movie was released in theaters, my daughter was an infant. I took her with me in the middle of the afternoon. That must be where she gets her affinity for the Doors.

I visited the cemetery's website before our trip to get an idea of where the grave was situated. I found the graves I knew were there that I wanted to visit: Jim Morrison, of course, Oscar Wilde, Marcel Proust, Eugene Delacroix, Moliere, Isadora Duncan, Edith Piaf. To my surprise I found Bizet, Chopin and Maria Callas were also laid to rest in Pere-Lachaise.

We visited late in the week, a day or two before we returned home. We started out with the group, taking the Metro from Oberkampf, changing lines at Republique and deboarding at Rue St. Maur. We walked up Avenue de la Republique and turned onto Boulevard de Menilmontant. The neighborhood was different from the area around our hotel which was situated between Avenue de la Republique and Boulevard Voltaire. This area seemed more common, more like everyday people might live here. The smells coming from the boulangeries and food shops were heavenly. I wanted to stop and look in every window.

The day was gray and we walked through a light drizzle. It was unusually cold for March, and I wore an ankle length sweater skirt and wool cape to keep the chill away. From the street, the cemetery was not that impressive. Once we walked through the gates, though, it was old and musty and absolutely spectacular.

The first thing we did was search for Jim Morrison's resting place. The graves are laid close to one another; some large, some small, some very old, some recent. The cemetery is on a hill, and we started walking up, following curved paths and the occasional graffiti marker (the one below was scratched onto a bench).

Like everyone else, I'd seen pictures of the stone adorned with a bust of Jim Morrison and we'd seen postcards of it in some shops in Paris. I couldn't remember just how the new headstone looked, all I could remember was the odd Greek inscription, "kata ton daimona eaytoy", which has been variously interpreted as "according to his own demon", "down with his own demons", "true to his own spirit", and "to the divine spirit within himself", just to name a few.

We walked through the cemetery, following the winding cobblestone paths. The atmosphere is eerie and a bit macabre, especially on such an overcast and chilly day. Some of the crypts and graves we saw along the way were gorgeous with age.

We had heard there were sometimes crowds around Morrison's gravesite and were expecting to fight our way through or wait in line to get close enough for pictures or to place a flower on the headstone. But when we arrived, there was no one in sight.

It was obvious others had been there, the headstone and the grave were covered with flowers, along with the occasional joint, and empty liquor bottles were nearby. We added our flowers and one of the girls had a picture of her father's rock band that she left on his behalf. My daughter and I lagged behind so that I could pour my little bottle of vodka on the grave without other teenage eyes watching. My daughter hummed a bit of her favorite Doors tune as I poured the libation:

All your love is gone

So sing a lovely song

Of a deep blue dream

Seven horses seem to be on the mark

Yeah, don't you love her

Don't you love her as she's walkin' out the door

She stopped short and told me to turn around and look behind us. There was a cat watching us intently from the top of a coffin shaped crypt. He continued watching us for a moment and then turned his back as if we had bored him. I think I've mentioned before how imaginative and dramatic my daughter can be. She became quite convinced that the cat was inhabited by the spirit of Jim Morrison, come to watch the ridiculous rituals that fans perform at his grave.

We walked through the stillness alone, just the two of us, taking our time and snapping photographs. There were graves, crypts and memorials both beautiful and haunting.

My lovely daughter had to stop by and give Oscar Wilde a kiss and sing a little "La Vie en Rose" to Edith Piaf. We wandered through the narrow, curvy paths and along the wider ones paved with cobblestones, reading names both foreign and familiar. We lingered at holocaust memorials and spring flowers in bloom. A couple of hours later we found ourselves at the entrance on Rue des Rondeaux opposite where we entered. We decided to walk around the cemetery rather than backtracking.

We walked on the sidewalk along the high stone walls dotted with moss, turning to go back to Boulevard de Menilmontant. The stone wall stretched out in front of us, but the sidewalk ended abruptly along with the street we were on. We took a pleasant detour through quiet streets, passing an old church along the way. We passed apartments where we saw young boys playing soccer in a courtyard and followed a young mother pushing her baby in a stroller while her toddler ran behind to catch up. On a corner we were greeted by young men passing out flyers for a coming election, each one advocating a different stance, and good naturedly competing for our non existent vote. We smiled and took the colorful papers lined with French, pleased that we didn't look like the lost tourists we were. Just as we decided we had been wrong not to turn back, we came upon this staircase that led us back to the street. The Phillipe Auguste Metro stop was a welcome sight, and we descended underground to plot the path to our next adventure.

Paris is a wonderful place to be lost.

small town traffic court

2007-10-11T20:20:00.001-05:00

Today was judgement day for our lovely daughter. She was summoned to court to answer for running into a school bus.

We arrived half an hour early, so we walked to Java Dave's for a warm drink. Even though we live in a large, metropolitan area, the suburb we live in is not that large and has a wonderful small town feel. The brick sidewalks are lined with lovely little shops selling clothing, antiques, gifts and art. It was a beautiful morning, cool but promising a warm afternoon. If it weren't for the fact we were downtown for court, I think we would have enjoyed it immensely.

We entered the municipal court and asked which of the two court rooms held the traffic court. The room was only a third full as we walked in and found a place to sit in the old style theater seating. As we waited the room filled up and we were grateful for our seats. The defendants with representation were heard first.

The judge was probably in his late forties or early fifties, and he handled the proceedings with kindness and humor. There was one youngish man who went before the judge for public intoxication. It was obvious the judge was familiar with him. Even though he handled most of the cases with hushed tones, we were near the front and could hear most of what transpired. I heard the judge say, "Do we have a special program for him, something like frequent flier miles?" I wanted to laugh, but repressed the urge. He asked the young man how he wanted to plead and was rewarded with a shoulder shrug. "Young man, I am trying to get you out of jail. How do you plead?" The answer was too soft to hear. The judge looked down at some paperwork, looked up at the young man and said, "This has to be some kind of record. You have 74 arrests for public intoxication." The woman to the judge's left informed him that the young man had been arrested 74 times this year. "There is really nothing I can do for you here, son. Bail is set at $10,000." The judge seemed upset about the whole situation.

After a while, those with representation had all been heard and the judge began to call the rest of the room. Our lovely daughter was the first person called who had actually bothered to show up. She froze, so I said, "Present", and we walked to the bench and stood before the judge. Keep in mind there was nothing at all intimidating about this judge or this court room. The bench wasn't raised, the room was small, the judge was personable. "Young lady, you have been cited for careless driving. You were involved in an accident, is that correct?" A head bob from my daughter. "You're sixteen?" Another head bob. "May I see your driver's license?" She hands him the license, which he looks at, then lays down on his desktop. "At your age, I should probably suspend your license temporarily. Tell me why you think you should be allowed to continue driving." Silence. Tears. I lower my head and speak softly, encouraging her to say something. Anything would do at this point. He hands her a tissue and tells her not to cry. As she continues to do just that and remain mute, the judge says, "I am going to keep this temporarily. Go sit back down and think about why I should give it back to you. And don't tell me because you won't do it again. I'll call you back up."

We sit back down and he continues on through the alphabet. After about 45 minutes of hearing people get fined and sentenced for speeding in a school zone, failing to wear a seat belt, or ignoring a signal, he calls her again. She almost immediately tears up.

"Young lady, do you know why I do this?" She manages a "no, sir". "Because your parents put you into a vehicle and trust that you will be safe. The absolute worst thing that can happen is that you are hurt in an accident. Was anyone hurt in your accident?" Another, "no, sir". He finally realizes she is never going to be able to get a whole sentence out of her mouth, let alone a defense of her driving skills. He looks at me and smiles, then says, "How are your grades, dear?" "Very good." "What is very good?" She tears up and chokes. I tell him she has seven classes, six As and one B. "Excellent. If I give this back to you today, do you promise to keep those grades up and work on making that B an A?" "Yes, sir", she says. I am praying he is almost done. Handing back her license, he says, "Alright, your sentence is deferred. If you do not receive another ticket in the next 90 days, this offense will be removed from your record. The fine is $244. Young lady, I do not want to see you in here again." She looks up at him and smiles and says, "Yes, sir, I won't let you down. Thank you, sir." Finally, he knows she can fashion a complete sentence.

We got into line and she paid $100 on the fine. We decided to make her pay it herself, thinking it would be a bit of a deterrent. We made it to the car before she started sobbing. "Mom, I'm so glad it's over!" I softly told her she got off easy, and that the judge was kind and gentle, and she was lucky we were living in a small town. She looked at me with disbelief and said, "If that was easy, I can never do anything illegal again. It will kill me."

My immediate thought was: Good.

on the run

2007-10-09T23:25:00.001-05:00

Our lovely daughter called after school to say her truck wouldn't start. After I made sure that she remembered to put it in park before trying to start it (really), she revealed that perhaps she'd left the lights on all day. Well, crap, was all I could think to say. How's that for a positive and supportive mother? She had play practice after school, and a full dress rehearsal at 6:30pm, so I waited for hubby to get home, for company, and because I just don't like jumper cables.

About 7:15pm we drove our VW Passat to her high school, jumper cables in the trunk and Jack in tow. This isn't the first time I've had to rescue her, so I knew just where her assigned parking spot sits on the enormous school lot. After hubby hooked the cables up, he said we needed to charge it a while and I should take Jack for a walk. I hadn't brought his leash, but we were in a completely fenced parking lot. There is a thin sliver of grass running between the curb and the chain link fence, a perfect place for Jack to walk. So I got him out of the back seat of the car and sat him down. He was off like a shot, going in the wrong direction (toward the street), but came right back to me when I called. I picked him up, turned him around, and he ran for the corner. I walked leisurely along, knowing the fence would keep him in. That is, would have kept him in, had it been intact.

All the way from our house to the school, about a fifteen minute drive, hubby held Jack in his arms with the window rolled down and let Jack feel the wind on his face. He loved it, closing his eyes and craning his neck to catch as much of the breeze as possible. Maybe that's what put the idea into his head to run.

There is construction at the school, and the fence is down, but it's recent, and I didn't know. I yelled for Jack. He looked over his shoulder at me and in that instant, I knew he wasn't coming. I took off in a dead run toward him, which Jack saw as his cue to run faster. He veered left and ran up toward the auditorium. I cannot stress how large this parking lot is. I don't run a lot anymore because of a bad knee, but I can walk an hour on my treadmill at 4 mph with no problem. I ran flat out until I couldn't run anymore, then resorted to calling Jack. Every time I would stop running, Jack would find an interesting place to pee. I think he was just letting me catch up so he could make me chase him a little more. I finally caught up with him, not because he let me, but because he ran himself into a corner where the wings of the old and new buildings meet and couldn't get out. I picked him up and put him on my chest, his front legs over my shoulder, the easiest way to carry him now that he's too big to be tucked under my arm. Then I sat out on the two mile trek back to the truck in the parking lot. I'm really not kidding.

As I walked past the auditorium, I saw a blue light and was drawn to the open exterior door. Across the large foyer, the door to the auditorium was propped open, probably for the cool night air. Standing there outside with the dog in my arms, I had a perfect view of my lovely daughter from stage right, pantomiming a scene from "Our Town". She was in full costume with her ashy blonde hair piled on top of her head, my Capezios peeking out from under the full skirt. It was quiet, and I was winded, so I stood there and watched the silent scene.

I watched maybe five minutes before it occurred to me that hubby probably wondered where the hell I had gone. I started at a fast pace back toward the parking lot just to see him, in her truck, coming along the path Jack and I had run. He was quite amused and quipped that he would have liked to see me chase Jack. Smart ass.

We retrieved the VW and parked her truck near the auditorium under a streetlight. I drove hubby around behind the auditorium to show him where I spied on our daughter. We watched for a few minutes from the car as she poured transparent liquid from a non-existent pitcher into imaginary glasses. I felt calm and serene, sitting in the dark with my husband and our dog, watching her in that ethereal blue light.

Jack almost always comes when I call him. I like to think there was a reason he didn't tonight. Without that little wild chase, I would never have seen her like that, bathed in blue light, blonde hair shining, pale skin shimmering, her performance peaceful in a way it will never be when I can hear her words.

lost in Paris

2007-09-30T17:35:00.001-05:00

In March my lovely daughter and I went to Paris for a week. We stayed in a lovely old hotel on rue du Grand Prieure in the Marais district. We left on Saturday afternoon and arrived in Paris on Sunday morning. Simply checking in to the hotel and taking the tiny lift up to our third floor room was an experience. We were exhausted from the trip, but too excited to rest for long.

Our first outing was to the boulangerie on the corner and down the block to a money machine for euros. We loved walking the three or four blocks to the Place de la Republique, looking at the unfamiliar shops. My daughter translated the French signs for me as we progressed, teaching me the words for book store, supermarket, and bakery.

We leisurely strolled back to the hotel to meet up with the group, eating pain au chocolat from paper wrappers. The side streets were narrow and every where we looked there was a sense of age that cannot be experienced in America, especially here in the Bible belt where my state is just now 100 years old. The staid buildings were punctuated with color on signs, awnings, and doors.

There were about twenty of us traveling together, my lovely daughter's French and Geometry teachers (husband and wife), their college-age son and his fiance, along with a couple other moms and the students, mostly girls with a couple of very happy young men in the bunch. We moved in a group up the wide sidewalks of the Place de la Republique toward Oberkampf station to catch the Metro and travel to Montmartre.

I had been to London a couple of years before and became familiar with the Tube. The Metro is similar, but much simpler to navigate, even in French. I noted the stations where we changed lines and the direction we travelled, mostly out of curiosity. I would be grateful later that I paid a bit of attention to our travel.

We came up out of the Metro into the street and walked to Montmartre. The street was full of shops, some displaying kitschy, touristy wares beside others full of clothing, fabrics and foods. The street was full and abuzz, despite the rain earlier in the day. We walked up the hill, stopping to look at this, touch that, or read a sign in French. As we neared the top, the street opened up into lawn with a pair of staircases leading up (and up, and up) to the gorgeous white Basilique du Sacre Coeur, or Basilica of the Sacred Heart.

Most of the group took the stairs, climbing up among the lovers, musicians, tourists and schoolchildren. But the other adults rode the tram up to the top to save their strength and their legs. My daughter and I walked up leisurely, stopping for a picture of flowers in full bloom or to turn and look back at the street. The climb to the basilica was more than worth the stunning panoramic view of Paris. Leaning on the stone railing and looking to the south, we got our first glimpse of the sights of Paris we'd visit during the week.

We went into the basilica and walked through the darkened aisles quietly, stopping to light candles and look at the beautiful mosaic in the apse. We walked out into the sunlight and wandered around the exterior, taking pictures of beautiful details. After a half hour we realized we were alone in the crowd and began to look for our group. When our search came up empty, we started our descent, stopping to look at each level until we reached the street below. There wasn't a familiar face in sight.

We decided to find a place to sit at the bottom of the hill and found a lovely cafe with bistro tables on the sidewalk. I ordered croque monsieur for both of us with a carafe of water, and my lovely daughter, with her sweet tooth, ordered a crepe filled with nutella and coconut. We sat in the street, the sun just beginning to set, and enjoyed our inexpensive meal. As time passed and the sky darkened, I became concerned that we would find ourselves alone on the streets of Montmartre after nightfall. It had been an hour since we found we were alone and I was sure we'd been missed and searched for. A decision had to be made to go or to stay. After much debate, we decided to make our way back to the hotel. I considered a taxi, even though I knew the fare would be high, but we didn't have the address, just the name of the hotel. My lovely daughter, being sixteen and well aware of the ways of the world, suggested we go back the way we came. We strolled back down the hill, searching for a glimpse of someone familiar all the while. We piddled in a fabric shop, laughed at garish tourist ware, purchased a hat and gloves for my daughter to wear against the chill of the March wind.

At the end of the street, we turned and walked toward Anvers station. After one last look around we descended underground and boarded the train. We changed lines at Stalingrad station, taking the number five toward Bobigny and stopping at Oberkampf. We came out of Oberkampf station on Place de la Republique, but at the opposite end of the station. We were disoriented, having just been there once, and turned the wrong way, but knew we were off track within a couple of blocks when we encountered our money machine from that morning. We turned around and headed for the hotel, almost delirious with joy when we rounded the corner and saw the familiar Hotel Plessis awnings.

We took the lift, just large enough for two (three if you know each other VERY well), up to our room and collapsed onto the double bed. After a couple of frantic phone calls all was well and we settled in for the night. My lovely daughter was asleep almost instantly, as she would be almost every night in Paris. I logged on the laptop to share our adventure with my husband, only to find out he already knew. The French teacher had called him in a panic, thinking she'd lost his family on the first night in Paris. He was glad to hear my voice.

little rewards

2007-09-13T23:15:00.001-05:00

All of my children were home for dinner tonight for the first time this week. I made tomato soup from scratch and served it with grilled cheese sandwiches made from crusty French bread and gruyere. We sat around the table and talked about our day. My girl told us she needs a pair of character shoes for her play. Not knowing what character shoes are, I asked for a description. It was then I realized she was describing a pair of heeled dance shoes, the ones with straps that you wear for jazz or tap. After dinner I went into my closet and pulled down a pair, Capezio, buff colored, size seven. I can't find the remote for the living room television set, entire categories of my linens are missing, and I just found the junk drawer yesterday, but I can lay my hands on a pair of dance shoes in under two minutes. I could also dress her as a cheerleader from that closet, head to toe including letter jacket, in my high school colors. Or produce the lovely cream taffeta dress she wore in her Aunt Samantha's wedding -- when she was not quite three. I truly think I might need to reconsider my priorities.

The boys both had little to say about the school day, but loads to share about their afterschool skateboarding, scooter riding, sword fighting, and frog hunting exploits. I cleaned up the dinner dishes while the little man had a bath and the older two did algebra homework and test prep. Hubby played with his new ipod (a gift from his boss) and shared an NPR podcast with me about an amazing parrot that died this week.

We sent everyone off to bed. I jumped into the shower to wash off the day's grime, accumulated from changing light bulbs, hanging curtains and pictures, and cleaning bathrooms. I thought about the differences between my girl and my boys. She supplies me with a level of detail that could stand to be whittled down. The boys tell me they cut, bruised, or banged something when I notice an ugly wound and ask if they require medical attention. After my shower I went to the other side of the house to kiss my children goodnight and tuck the little one in. I found him crying in his bed.

Even though he is still relatively little, my baby does not really cry much, so I was a bit alarmed. I sat down on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his damp hair. Wet lashes and red, slightly swollen eyes told me he had been crying for a while. When I asked why, he told me about a boy named Ethan who sometimes joins his class. I didn't understand what he was telling me at first. He was sobbing, and little boys tend to tell things in rushes of words and blurs of sentences. There was something about a finger puppet named Elmo that is special, that calms Ethan down, and how Ethan might have his feelings hurt if other children make fun of him. "He would know, Mom, even if they whispered, because Ethan can hear a train TWO MINUTES before you or me. He can hear them in the whole school." I asked him how he knew Ethan could hear so well and was told that his mother shared this with the class because Ethan's disease makes him special.

He used the word "disease", my eight year old boy. He couldn't remember the name but it started with an 'a'. I immediately supplied "autism" which he recognized as the right word. My little boy was crying over the imagined hurt feelings of a boy in his class with autism. I was dumbstruck.

I explained as best I could what I understand autism to be. We talked about mainstreaming and IEPs and special teachers. We talked about someone in my family with Down's and what his life was like. We talked about differences in perception and the special abilities that some people with autism display. I told him that Ethan's parents want the same thing for Ethan that we want for him: to have a happy and fulfilled life. I talked to him about the difference an education can make in the life of a child, special or ordinary.

I suspect other children are making fun of Ethan. I told my son it was okay to say something if he hears others saying unkind things. We decided he should say he doesn't think it's cool to laugh at others in a mean way. "I will tell them, Mom. I just didn't know what to do and it made me sad." I was thankful we were sitting in the dark.

I left his room with wet cheeks. His sensitivity and tender heart touched me and astonished me. I am sad and proud at the same time. And I am aware that some things just cannot be taught that well. My little boy is just like his father.

when all else fails

2007-09-11T13:43:00.001-05:00

I am in a foul mood today.

I woke up that way, but it got consistently worse. Lovely daughter is driving my car to school and work until we decide what to do with her sad, wrecked vehicle. I went outside to evaluate said vehicle, started it up and drove it a bit. It smelled funny, like it was a little hot. I pulled into the driveway, popped the hood, and checked the antifreeze. Bone dry. So I thought I should probably check the oil. Two quarts low. Hubby is always prepared for the end of the world, confirmed pessimist that he is, so I went into the garage, picked up a bottle of antifreeze and two quarts of oil and went to work. Damn, I showed her how to do that at least twice, and asked her once a week if she'd done it. Sometimes I think that girl will be the death of me.

Back into the truck, off to Wal-Mart. I actually despise Wal-Mart, but I needed to replenish hubby's doomsday stash, pick up some OJ, a plant for my youngest boy's aquarium, and a couple of scatter rugs to save my back from the tile on my kitchen floor. Yes, I hate Wal-Mart, but where else can you do that in one trip?

Back from shopping, I unloaded the truck, let Jack out of his crate and put on some music. I selected one of my favorite play lists on my MP3 player and logged on to the computer to check in with you, lovely readers, my favorite bloggers. I've made the rounds, made a few comments, and voila, I am boucoup better.

What cheered me up:

Missing You by John Waite
Hurt by Johnny Cash
Open Arms by Journey
Beth by Kiss
The Road Between by Lisa Marie Presley
Love Don't Live Here Anymore by Madonna
I Want to Come Over by Melissa Etheridge
Torn by Natalie Imbruglia
Northern Sky By Nick Drake
How You Remind Me by Nickelback
Don't Speak by No Doubt
Champagne Supernova by Oasis
Is it a Crime? by Sade
When I'm with You by Sheriff
Redemption Day by Sheryl Crow
It's Been a While by Staind
Don't Stand So Close to Me by The Police
Free Fallin' by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Drops of Jupiter by Train
The Night the Lights Went Out In Georgia by Vicky Lawrence
A Horse with No Name by America
Maggie May by Rod Stewart
Me and Bobby McGee by Janis Joplin
Nothing Compares 2 U by Sinead O'Connor
Walk Away by Bree Sharp
China Girl by David Bowie
Bringing on the Heartbreak by Def Leppard
Jolene by Dolly Parton (although the White Stripes version would do)
Kissing a Fool by George Michael
Beautiful Boy by John Lennon
David Duchovny by Bree Sharp

I know every word of every verse of every song. These are songs I love. I put this list on when I am feeling blue and want to feel better. I am usually the kind of person who listens to whole albums, in order, but there are times when a list is just better. Today this list fit the bill.

A little eclectic, maybe a little boring, but it's one of my favorite playlists.

I thought it might be fun to see if anyone else has my taste. This is a tad obscure, but I have given you the name of the artist in my list. Do you know the song or the artist?

I stutter like a broken clutch
When you touch me too much
My tongue gets twisted in your twirl
You say I'm not your kinda girl
A spider underneath my skin
I want you out
I want you in
The venom and the vaccine swirl
You say I'm not your kinda girl

What kind of girl should I be?
The kind of girl who doesn't see
That you're lookin' at me
Like you wanna be seein' someone else
Somebody else

You rip the sureness from my stare
And throw the pieces in the air
Your fingers string me like a pearl
You say I'm not your kinda girl
It's not a secret anymore
What you keep me around for
And my excuses all unfurl
I'm not that kinda, kinda girl

What kind of girl should I be?
The kind of girl who doesn't see
That you're lookin' at me
Like you wanna be seein' someone else
Somebody else

See somebody else
See somebody else
See somebody else
See somebody else

I want you to see somebody
I want you to see somebody

I want you to see somebody else

sometimes . . .

2007-09-08T21:38:00.000-05:00

it sucks to be me.

Yesterday was one of those times. The morning started nicely. Hubby was off work as it was his birthday (happy birthday sugar). We slept in and the children got themselves up and ready for school. Such good kids! Hubby and I had a leisurely breakfast and lingered over coffee (him) and tea (me). He had golfing to do and I had shopping to do. I left the table first to shower and dress. When I returned to tell him the shower was his, I got a terrible look.

"That was your daughter's principal." Why is she always MY daughter when he's unhappy? I politely ignored the incorrect pronoun and asked why. There was an accident. Our lovely daughter hit another car in the truck my father gave her. Well, not another car, exactly. A bus. A schoolbus. Full of children. With her brother in the front seat.

I got into my car and drove to the high school. The ladies in the office sent for her. She started crying when she rounded the corner and saw me looking her way. She wiped her eyes. I told her she looked pretty good for a girl who had an accident that morning. Her response, "Well, this is really good mascara, Mom. It's waterproof." We got into my car and drove over to her parking lot (it's a pretty big high school). My husband had been told it wasn't a bad accident. I was expecting a dented bumper.

What I saw: a passenger door that wouldn't open, a cracked headlight and annhilated turn signal cover, a crumpled hood and hanging bumper. That was when I started to cry. Not one, but two of my children were inside when it was hit. Or, more accurately, when it hit something.

We did some serious talking and I told her things would be ok, then sent her back into school. I started making the necessary phone calls. First, Daddy. I told him what happened, that I was sorry, that she was alright. My father, who almost literally hit the ceiling when I had my first accident, said, "Baby, it's just a truck. Drive it home to me and I'll get it fixed." And I started to cry again. Daddy then reminded me of his birthday the year I was sixteen. When I wrecked his truck. Caved in the back of the cab with an oil field motor. With two of my cousins inside. And he laughed. I can assure you he did not think it was funny at the time.

By now it's 11:00am and I haven't even started the shopping. I had a cake to make for the elementary's cake walk and cookies to make for the middle school's bake sale. (Does it never occur to the powers that be that a family might have children in more than one school? I actually have one child in each of those PLUS another at the high school.) At this point there is no way I can shop and bake and drop everything off by 3:30pm, so I do what any resourceful and harried mother would do: I fake it. I buy a frosted cake and two dozen cookies at my favorite local bakery, take them home, put the cake into the box the school provided, put the cookies on a paper plate, cover them with saran wrap, and proceed to deliver them to the schools as if I had made them myself. So sue me. I'd had a bad day.

And it wasn't over. I inadvertently locked poor little Streudel in the master suite with no food, no water, and no litter box. I have a lovely bathroom with a tile floor. He did not choose to urinate there. He did not even choose to urinate on the carpet. The damn cat peed on my bed. Twice.

I think that's about it. Oh, wait, I didn't even tell you about taking hubby to the after hours clinic. He played golf and pulled a muscle deep in his shoulder somewhere. On his birthday. He did get some really good muscle relaxers, though. I think I'm going to take one and go to bed.

the high school play

2007-09-06T08:42:00.001-05:00

Lovely daughter came home with wonderful news yesterday. Actually, she called me from school because she was so excited. The she called her daddy and her grandparents and her friends... She has been cast in one of the main parts of this year's school play!

The high school is doing "Our Town". A bitty, tiny little girl with a sweet, adolescent voice has been cast as Emily. Lovely daughter, with her deeper voice and more grown up figure, has been cast as Emily's mother.

This is not her first play. She has had speaking parts previously in "The Odd Couple", "Amadeus", and a couple of student-written productions. She served as stage manager and assistant director, and the voice of Myra, for a production of Neil Simon's "Rumors".

But this is her first play at the new school. She is taking theater production this year. Her teacher had already spoken to her about the assistant director spot because of her current class and her previous experience, but after tryouts, the teacher called her in and asked if she'd mind being cast instead because the teacher thought she was "perfect" in auditions. Pretty cool.

As has been previously noted, our lovely daughter is somewhat dramatic. When she was little and became upset she didn't just cry. She worked up to it. First, she would check for her audience. Then she would begin by poking out her little bottom lip. Next, the eyes would fill with tears and her nose would wrinkle. She would screw up her tiny little face and start to sob quietly, then throw herself over, bending at the waist onto whatever surface she was on, whether it was the bed, the sofa, the changing table, or the tile floor in the kitchen. I can remember thinking she was going to give herself a concussion. Then the sobbing and wailing would begin in earnest. I used to put a blanket in her bedroom floor, lay her on it, and leave the room. Once her audience disappeared, it was quite amazing how quickly the sobs would stop.

Honestly, I'm grateful that she's found an outlet for all that drama. She's far too big for me to pick her up now.

Picture one: Lovely daughter is on the left in black and red, onstage in "Amadeus".

dinner hour stand up

2007-08-30T22:22:00.001-05:00

My youngest entertained us tonight. I love this age. The funniest part of the routine is the way he breaks into peals of uncontrollable laughter before delivering the punch line. There is nothing better than listening to the laughter of a very amused little child. We usually have to ask him to repeat it two or three times before we can hear the punch line through his laughter.

Some of tonight's jewels:

Why did Luke Skywalker scream? He didn't want pie. (He's 8. He was warming up. And he wrote this one himself.)

Knock knock. Who's there? Pile up. Pile up who? No you're not. Don't be so hard on yourself, buddy. (If you don't get it, say it out loud. This one actually made me laugh.)

What does Mr. Lightning wear under his clothes? Thunderpants.

Why did Tigger put his head in the toilet? He was looking for Pooh.

Who is Peter Pan's worst smelling friend? Stinkerbell. (He finds this one especially funny because it was our daughter's nickname when she was a little one. I'm not kidding.)

What nationality are you when you go to the bathroom? European.

And, his favorite joke of the night:

A woman walks into a pet store and says, "Can I get a puppy for my daughter?" "Sorry, lady, we don't do trades."

making friends

2007-08-24T11:36:00.001-05:00

Inspired by a post and video of Laurie's, I took Jack to the local dog park on Wednesday morning just before lunch.

Jack is an only dog and hasn't spent much time with other dogs since he was just a six or eight week old pup. I decided we should venture to the park during a weekday morning after school started in the hope that we would be alone for his first visit. My plan was partially successful.

The local dog park is a nice one, with lovely large trees all around the edges and new ones planted here and there with benches tucked underneath. It is split into two areas, one for dogs under 30 pounds and one for dogs over 30 pounds. I parked the car in the parking lot of the neighboring people park and walked underneath a canopy of trees and across a lovely little bridge carrying Jack's wriggly 17 pounds under my arm. I thought we'd check out the small dog part first, so I opened the gate and we walked into a fenced area of longish lawn with a bench in one corner and a water spigot in the middle on a square of concrete, complete with dog bowls, poo bag dispensers and a trash can. Jack sniffed around and ran the perimeter of the fence before making a beeline for me. He sat on his haunches and looked up at me, ready to go. The small dog area is not very exciting.

We ambled into the large dog area with no one in sight. My car had been the only vehicle in the parking lot and I assumed we were alone. You know what happens when you assume . . .

The grass was much longer here, some of it almost as tall as Jack with most of it grazing his belly. After checking out the water faucet with much larger bowls, Jack ran to the nearest tree, nose to the ground. I'm sure he was smelling all of the dogs who had come here before him. I noticed a couple of nylon leashes hanging on the chain link fence, but didn't think much of them because we'd seen all kinds of dog paraphernalia left for visitors' use. Jack took off for the center of the park and I followed. The park is built on a gentle slope with its highest end at the entrance. At the back beyond the fence is a large pond that backs up to the walking paths in the people park. It's really a very pretty spot. As the pond came into view, I saw a man and a woman walking towards us from near the water. As they got closer, I saw the two dogs.

They were large dogs (compared to Jack, anyway), one black and one buff in color. Jack saw them and he was gone, running at top speed across the park in an intercept course. As he closed in, I think he realized that he was not only outnumbered but seriously outsized. As I watched he made an abrupt course correction, taking off for the fence. He was too late. They had seen him and quite quickly they were in pursuit.

I ran but there was no way I was going to catch him in time. The man ran for his dogs, yelling their names. I yelled for Jack. They all ignored us. Watching them run along the fence, I was quite impressed. Both dogs were twice Jack's size but he is very quick. When they would get close, Jack would lay on a bit of extra speed, like a sprinter at the end of the race he's just about to win. It was a beautiful sight, even though I couldn't quite enjoy it at the time.

Finally it occurred to me that I should give Jack a command and get him to come my way. I summoned my loudest voice from the bottom of my diaphragm, yelling, "Jack, come!" Much to my surprise, he barrelled toward me, floppy ears flying with his speed. He never slowed down, taking to the air at the last moment and flying up into my arms. He was wet even though it was midday, and I realized it wasn't dew but saliva. He had large tongue marks on the rear of his body where he'd almost been caught.

Turns out the other dogs were Chinese Shar-Peis, very handsome dogs. The other owner called to his dogs and walked toward me, laughing. At the time I did not find the situation amusing in the least. After comforting him, I sat Jack down at my feet, holding onto his collar, talking to the other owner. The dogs were all panting from effort and smelling of each other. The female was more aggressive, sniffing Jack and circling behind him. The male stayed in front just out of reach. I've never seen Jack so excited or so nervous. He kept turning to keep them both in front of him, but they kept moving, until Jack finally backed his rear end into me and sat on my foot.

Before it was over, Jack was playing, chest down, rear in the air, bouncing up and down and making friendly noises. After the other dogs left, Jack and I walked the rest of the park to let him calm down. I carried him to the car and he slept all the way home, exhausted from the experience. We went back today and Jack was so excited I could barely hold him as we went across the bridge. Next time, I'll have to take his leash for the walk in.

I do think he was a bit disappointed when we found the park deserted. Maybe his friends will be there the next time.

a busy week

2007-08-22T10:05:00.001-05:00

I have been very busy.

Last Friday I drove to my old hometown to pick up my mother-in-law's bichon frise. I had agreed to keep him while she is on a cruise to Alaska. Toby is about fourteen years old. He is partially blind, doesn't hear well, has a bit of an incontinence problem (in my brand new house!), and for some reason, no matter how clean he is, he has a terrible smell. On the other hand, he is sweet and loveable and my mother-in-law adores him.

I can't wait for her to get home.

Jack, our adorable nine month old schnauzer, wants to play with Toby all the time. Toby wants to play with Jack about twenty minutes a day. A terrible combination, I must say. I spend a lot of my time just separating them. They have to be walked in succession, because Jack practically runs a mile before he does his business, and Toby barely moves faster than a turtle. At least he only has to walk about six feet before he's ready to go.

The kids went back to school on Monday. Our lovely daughter went back to her high school, even though we've moved into another area. She is driving to school for the first time and is pleased with her schedule. Both of the boys went to new schools, the older one to middle school and the little one to elementary. The fourteen year old is very unhappy after two days of school. I can only hope it gets better. The little one, though, is doing very well. He is delighted with his teacher and the school, and he's made two new friends.

This afternoon I am meeting my daughter at a drug testing facility so that she can take the drug test for her new job! I am excited for her but also slightly worried; she was offered a position in a local drug store after she had filled out one application and had one interview. I hope this experience doesn't make her think it will always be that easy to find a job!

My parents are coming to see the new house this weekend. I am still unpacking and things are really a bit of a wreck. I don't miss the other house, but I do miss the storage. The closets in this house are wonderful and the kitchen storage is amazing, but the general storage for things like games and books and photos isn't quite as good. As a result, I still have boxes full of CDs, DVDs, video games, and books stacked in the dining room. Then there are the miscellaneous items whose perfect storage place always eludes me, regardless. At least in the last house, I had a couple of empty cabinets under the wet bar to stash things. I know it's completely passe to have one these days, but I miss that wet bar.

Add to the above the normal laundry, shopping, and cooking duties as well as the whirlwind of back to school shopping, and I'm amazed I found the time to post today. I suppose I'd better go work on those boxes now. Oh joy.

transition

2007-07-24T07:52:00.001-05:00

We have moved. Mostly.

There are still odds and ends left in the old house. Things the movers wouldn't touch. Every last one of my plants, indoors and out. Electronic equipment not packed in its original box. (Who does that?) Gasoline cans. The grill. All taboo items according to the moving company. Then, of course, the entire contents of the coat closet that I forgot to pack.

The kids and I spent part of yesterday carrying things to the new house in my car and in the back of my daughter's truck. I went alone yesterday morning. Just as I was pulling out of the subdivision, rain started to pour. And I mean pour. The kind of rain that makes you think perhaps you should pull off the road for a minute and wait for the deluge to pass.

The new house is a jumble of packed, partially unpacked, and empty boxes. We finally have television, telephone and internet. The weekend was very quiet without them. The new refrigerator has not arrived, so each time we want milk or ice or butter, we have to go out to the garage to the old refrigerator. I am questioning the wisdom of leaving the fridge in the garage while we don't have one in the house. It seemed like a good idea when hubby mentioned it, but in practice it is quite annoying and inconvenient.

The children have adjusted well. I can't say as much for the animals. On Friday the cats found the highest point in a back corner of the house and perched there all day. They were draped on top of each other, the way they used to always sleep when they were kittens. When I climbed up on a counter to try to pet them, Streudel hid behind Lucy and looked at me as if I were an alien. They have mostly gotten over it and have started eating normally again.

Jack is a bit lost. I think I am probably confusing him more by taking him back and forth with me every time I go to the old house. I don't want to crate him every trip we make, and leaving him loose in the new house is out of the question. There are too many lovely things to chew. He does love the old back yard with its big trees and grasses and flowers. As soon as I let him into the house, he runs directly to the back door and sits patiently waiting for the door to open. I think he misses the squirrels.

my luck is changing

2007-07-18T22:43:00.001-05:00

Cold air in my Toyota for $50 less than the quote. Four perfectly inflated tires on my lovely daughter's truck. Jack is all better. Packed house. Perfect walk through. Completed closing. The movers will be here at 9:00 am on Friday. Sweet.

Murphy's Law

2007-07-17T07:49:00.001-05:00

Moving preparations are going extremely well. I have been pleasantly surprised at the level of my children's packing competence. Granted, we just did this ten months ago, but I remember doing much more of it myself last time. The living room is so full of boxes that only a path in front of and behind the seating is still passable. The walls are bare and the windows are down to the blinds and curtain rods that were already hanging when we moved in. Even the garage is ready. So, of course, something else had to go wrong.

Driving along the turnpike a few days ago with the air conditioner full blast to combat stifling heat and humidity in this suddenly seasonable Oklahoma July, we smelled smoke. The kind of smoke that comes from mechanical failure.

I drive a Toyota Avalon that came equipped with a climate control system. Not one light will come on. The heater won't work. Not that we really want it to. The fan won't blow, not even hot air. The outside temperature display no longer works. It's not that it is registering zero, or even the wrong temperature. It is completely blank. In other words, complete and utter failure of the climate control system.

The garage called yesterday to say that the compressor failed internally causing the entire climate control system to lose power. We need to replace the compressor and the dryer thingy. At the bargain price of $800. Of course it's no longer under warranty.

Hubby went off to work in our lovely VW Passat with perfectly functioning air conditioner. That leaves us with only daughter's truck for transport. The air is nice and cold. However, it seats three. There are four of us left in the house. Of course.

I walked out this morning with keys and purse in hand to run out for a gallon of milk for breakfast. What I found was a flat tire. Completely flat. I guess it no longer matters that the truck only seats three as it is now useless to me. The kids can have juice for breakfast. Or water. Or soda. I frankly do not care as long as they stay out of the gin and the wine. I am reserving those for myself.

The good news is the Toyota will be ready this afternoon. Thank the Lord for small favors.

moving toward home

2007-07-12T08:54:00.001-05:00

It is pouring rain this morning and the house is dark and quiet. The children are still sleeping at five minutes until 9:00am. I know I should wake them but frankly I am enjoying the solitude. We are supposed to pack their rooms today. In about a week we'll move. We are nowhere near ready for the moving vans to arrive. I confess that I have never been ready for the moving vans until the night before they arrive. Well, once I was. But that was due to the fact that it was a corporate move and the moving guys did all the packing as well as the loading and unloading. All I had to do was make sure the house was neat, pick up the baby, and get out of the way. That was many years ago, the baby was my almost grown daughter, and I have forgotten completely what it was like to have the luxury of someone else packing up my belongings.

I remember all too clearly our move last year. It was really a chore. We had lived in the same home for twelve years. It was a three bedroom, two bath, two car garage house on a corner lot and it was filled to the brim with all of those important and not so important things a family collects over time. We had a big garage sale and I still had to box things up and move them out just to put the house on the real estate market.

Before we knew we'd have to move away from home, we had started looking for a larger house, something bigger with another bedroom in our same school district. I knew we needed more space but I don't think I realized just how small our house was until we moved into this one. There is so much space here that I felt a bit lost at first. In fact, I missed my little gray house. I missed my beautiful soaking tub that sat under a skylight in redwood decking. I missed the vaulted ceilings and the natural light that filled the house. I missed the walls I had stripped and painted and papered, the woodwork I had stained, the tile floors my husband had painstakingly laid. Oddly enough I missed the intimacy of the smaller space. I missed lying in bed and hearing my boys murmur to each other across the hallway.

I think what I missed most of all was the feeling that the little gray house was my home. This house is not my home. It is roomy and has storage to die for, but it isn't mine. I can't change the fixtures or the wallpaper in the extra bathroom or the carpet. I can't rip out the horrible bushes the homeowner didn't tend for years. I can't change the kitchen counters or tear out the wall between the laundry room and the half bath to make it big enough to turn around in. I have wanted to do each of those things since the moment we moved in.

I am not looking forward to the logistics of moving. I most definitely am not interested in packing or unpacking. I don't want to get the kids up and make them work the next week of their summer away. But when it's all over and I am sitting in a house full of boxes waiting to be emptied, I know I will feel happier, more content. We bought a house. And once again, I'll have a place to call my own.