Zora Travels

Home again, home again, jiggedy jog...

Yesterday

Clifford the Big Red Dog captivates Ewan with his naked butt (how does he always end up without pants under my watch?).  Iris, swaddled and fed, swings with half-open eyes under her fish mobile. Tomorrow morning I'll sit amidst colleagues at school planning the agenda for the new teacher training and my time with my niece and nephew will seem a distant memory.

Today

I just returned from my first work meeting of the new school year.  A pedagogical "to-do" list gathers length in my mind, an empty pasta bowl and near-finished bag of pita chips lie at my side, bright yellow "welcome home" daisys burst from their vase.  Yesterday, I left the comforts of an air-conditioned home filled with three adults, two children and four animals to return to my home with Daniel.  A bright, hot, slightly disheveled home that throughout the day fills with KCRW, a gentle breeze, and often silence.  I am keenly aware right now just how quiet my home is.  Sheer golden curtains flutter in front of an open window, the wall clock steadily ticks, and the neighbor's tree rustles in the wind.

City life; albeit familiar is always an adjustment ---delivered this morning with my first traffic-filled drive up the 405 freeway.  No more picturesque sunrises that bring the velvet carpet of grass and gushing field sprinklers into light along a lightly traveled two lane road (occasionally shared with tractors).  No more salmon hued whispy clouds that dot the Kititas Valley sky as I push the stroller along a shady creek.  No more toddlers who ask for ticklebumps or babies whose lips smack wildly as the bottle warms.  But I am glad to be home.  Grateful this morning at 5:30 as the cell phones began their alarm duet, that I could nestle into Daniel's arms and have my first glimpse of the day be his faint stubble grin.  Energized to find the equipment and weights in all their proper places at the gym.  Enthusiastic to begin a discussion of how to best help the new teachers join our merry staff.

There is really no way to ever make geographical distance painless.  With all of our modern advances, I already can't remember exactly how Iris' eyebrows arch right before she smiles or recall Ewan's squeel as the horse draws near.  I'll look back on pictures, blog posts, and journal entries...but if another whole year passes between visits, a pre-schooler and walking baby will meet me.

Part of me always wishes I could pick up a map, pinch Washington and California, and simply smoosh them together...completely ignoring the boisterous protests in Northern California and Oregon.  Northwest liberals are very noisy...and I suppose it would throw off agriculture and ecosystems; however, it would mean I could run over there tonight and finish that last serving of peach cobbler hiding in the tupperware on the second shelf.  I could watch Ewan's face chortle with glee as Shane tickles him at the dinner table.  I could sample one more batch of my Mom's homemade ice-cream.  I could be an active participant in my brother's family and not just a visitor who comes once a year.

But one never knows where the journey will lead.  We may end up on Mercer Island or Catalina, driving to work on the 90 or the 91, living in a cramped apartment in Noe Valley or a spacious house overlooking the Columbia.  No matter where we settle, I can't fathom seeing them less than once a year.  That's my absolute max...when I start to get that ache deep in my chest and squeeze the children a little too hard at the airport.  Oh, I miss them already. 

With a tinge of sadness, I'm off to take one of those rare and relished summer naps that the school year does not permit.

Columbia is a possibility

I just plucked an aged Berenstain Bears book out from under my tush and grinned.  Tomorrow night I'll be snuggling Daniel under our faux-suede duvet in our monstrous bed; there will be no puzzle pieces lodged in between our pillows, no sincere requests to read Llama, Llama, Red Pajamas "just one more time," no warm babies lying on my chest and occasionally gifting me with a blue-eyed gummy smile...and I'll think back to this patchwork place that I spent so much of these past three weeks.  Thorin who suns himself in the bright corner leaving behind a carpet of dark hair; Ewan who stashes his books and plastic dinosaurs for evening play.

Before writing this post, I had just come in for a drink of water after sticking various rubber finger puppets in the copper twirly on the porch.  This doo-dad is guaranteed to deliver hours of optical illusion to any eave from which it drops.  My mother bought one for each of us at the Sunday farmer's market.  Tucked between the white tents bursting with blueberry lemonade, buffalo jerky, and donut peaches was a gnarled wood pyramid dripping with copper twirlies.  As the metal spirals spin, the object appears to splash up from the coils, when actually there is no movement.  It really is quite fun and I hope all of my future guests will enjoy the orange hued contraption once we hang it on our porch.  I will be certain to document future visitor's reactions in their varying forms of amazement.

These past few days have been luxurious for my senses.  Warm oiled hands kneaded my doughy back at an Aveda spa (Gracias, Kathy), my mother arrived sculpting blintzes swimming in berry sauce, peach cobbler melting in homemade frozen yogurt, and snapper lightly resting in butter.  She has a way of placing both food and memory into the mortar and pestle to mash the two inseparably into your consciousness.  I shudder to think of others, including myself, making these dishes...pure sacrilege to fathom someone else dishing up these delights; however, I'm keenly aware these recipes were not genetically ingrained.  They came down from a quartet of influential women.  Seasonings and general culinary knack hail from Lola, Southern staples from Deanne and Bettie, and the coup d'etat ---peach cobbler from Margaret.

Iris and I both watched as my mother, hopped up on iced-coffee, and maybe slightly in response to my sour-faced response to "maybe we'll wait on the cobbler," began to plunge into our 22 lb. box of Johnson Orchard peaches with vigor at 10pm.  She pealed and diced each peach, juice spilling over her hands into the pan below.  Flour, cubed butter and water danced delicately in a glass bowl until a rolling pin could nudge the crumbling strips into being.  Soon, the sugar-sprinkled buttered pastry mounted gushing peaches and the pair caramelized together in a hot oven.  Cobbler wafts began just as the ice-cream maker slowed its churn of homemade vanilla frozen yogurt.  My own twin contraption awaits my lactose intolerant fantasies when I get home to Long Beach (thanks, Sparky).  And that was just on Saturday.

Crusty sourdough plunged into bowls of vibrant carrot ginger soup; yellow beets, pears, and shaved parmesan dressed in a delicate vinaigrette; velvet spring risotto with peas and drizzled with olive oil; Tuscan chicken with goat cheese on foccacia found us on our mother-daughter Sunday afternoon.  We drove for several hours through valleys, in the shadows of the Manastash ridge, into the lush Cascade greenery to find Snoqualmie Falls.  A waterfall splashes 268 feet below the picturesque Salish Lodge (our dining digs are in the upper left of this photo).  Flower baskets gushed, mist from the falls dabbled the chamomile flowers clinging to the cliffs, and the sun shone with gentle radiance on a day filled with conversation.  Both our minds and mouths wound along the highway with questions and perspectives.  We discussed the beauty of sisters and female friendship (when sisters didn't come), my eventual wedding (of which we lightly plan even though "the question" still looms), my parent's divorce (an oldie-but-goody), and a passionate discussion of how Daniel and I "should absolutely NOT go to Columbia" in January (about which I could not muster up enough evidence to counter adequately).

We passed cows grazing near lakes dotted along the highway, horses galloping near dilapidated barns, and she told me of the temperature alarms and smudge pot lighting that used to wake up our neighboring orchardists in the Methow Valley.  During the spring, if the apple buds freeze, the crop is ruined, thus, back in the 70's low temperatures would set off a string of alarms.  Our family friends, the Stennes Family, would awaken, throw on some work clothes and hastily run from row to row, lighting smudge pots.  The thick black smoke and heated oil slightly warmed the air amidst the trees saving the buds and ensuring for at least one more day that the crop would survive.  I was fascinated by the romanticism of this frantic lighting.  I saw dark images of overall-clad farmers, soot on their faces, kneeling down beside the gnarled apple trunks and fanning flames they prayed would cast a warm enough embrace.  Flickering flames casting shadows on worried faces spread throughout the lush apple valley...livelihoods completely naked to Nature's lashing.

With full cameras and bellies, we drove towards home with fewer words and stopped in an old mining town that used to play Cicely, Alaska on television.  Passing time listening to gravel crunching underfoot and leathery Croatian men banter outside of a store hawking dusty Northern Exposure memorabilia.  An enormous Marlin Brando mural (from Wild One) painted on a lumber canvas and famous cafe facades and radio booth windows were captured.  My favorite Roslyn moment was looking up to watch the lanky biker cross the road, all but a denim heart around his genitals covered in worn black leather, faded boots grinding gravel, a tobacco stained beard hiding a gentle smile as he put out his cigarette in the coffee can at my feet, twisting the butt in his fingers until the filter and unburned remnants sprinkled into the sand.

My mind spun with images and my stomach churned the cheesy memories of Shane's homemade pizza as I wriggled under the quilt last night.  My mother and I each lay with our backs facing our opposing lamps, pajamas and pillows, feet and books, all slowly settling into night.  If only Michael Landon had popped his head up the ladder, kissed my braided bonnet head, and said "Goodnight, Half-pint" I would have been certain that I had just spent the day on the prairie.

Is there a doctor in the house?

Long ago, amidst the fireworks and orchards of Lake Chelan, my brother met his beautiful wife.  Courtney and I were just talking about this ancient summer the other day...we tried listening to their phone calls and watched with glee as he wrote her name in fancy-schmancy handwriting all over the scratchpaper by the phone. Kathy's a brainiac, but she also combines her wicked intelligence with beauty, patience, grace, kindness, and friendship...but her brains are seriously gushing all over the place.  Shane, baby Iris, and I accompanied her yesterday to the grand opening of her university.  A real official ribbon cutting ceremony with dignitaries and board members and donors (every one of whom apparently needed to have their names read in blazing sunshine).  I kept finding myself in awe.  Here is this intelligent woman who brilliantly balances a 6 week old baby, a busy 3 year old, various published articles in journals and magazines, and a professorship at a medical school.  She has a name plate, fancy office, real wood furniture, and soon medical school students will be addressing her as "Doctor" or "Professor" ( photo shows her office view).  I don't think she's quite used to the titles but they are so well deserved. 

I think all of us should have to call her Doctor.  "Doctor, I enjoyed your kids today." "Doctor, I think a veggie burger sounds lovely for dinner."  She would never agree to these shanagins...but it's appropriate for someone who toiled on a Ph.D. dissertation for years whilst working full time and mothering a toddler.

Daniel flew in last night at 1:30am.  After 9 long days apart, my excitement was only slightly dampened by the reality that sleep or not, two children awaited my patience and energy at 7:00 this morning.  It is wonderful to have him here in this tapestry of my daily routine.  To have an extra set of hands to stir the mac 'n' cheese, cut the peaches, and hand me warmed bottles with a few kisses is a wonderful thing.

His arrival also means that to Ewan I am now chopped liver.  I would have to have something monumental, like an actual train or life-size race car, to trick him into spending time with me.  My dinosaur lego houses, which up until today would earn a few chuckles, are suddenly not up to code.  My voices reading How does a Dinosaur say Goodnight are now boring and monotone. 

I'm used to this routine.  Daniel out-giggles me with all children we meet but in a few years when I radiate the essence of diaper cream, baby cereal, and mashed carrots, him whisking away a few toddlers for a good belly laugh will be a welcome reprieve.

Side of buttered Texas and the camera

There is always this subtle twang that I hear in Central Washington.  It is an ever-so-slight Canadian-Minnesota with a side of buttered Texas rolled in.  I never picked up on it as a child.  It wasn't until years after our move to California that my ears would notice this lilt and within a few days of my return, I would casually drop a few of my own words back into it.  Last night at the Cottage Inn, my dad and I stopped for some pan-fried chicken and lemon meringue pie (my stomach was truly baffled by these entries).  The cashier's twang was so pronounced and familiar.  Their floral wallpapered walls also posted the best sign I've seen in a while (see photo).  How wonderful is that?

Passing grand pastures, open fields, and knotted apple trees along Blewett Pass was always significant as a child.  This route meant we were either leaving or coming back to our small town existence...which only happened every few years and usually entailed driving or flying to Southern California.  Last night, it signified yet another trip home as an adult to wallow knee-high in the memories of childhood.

As we were driving, the mini-cooper wheels ground to an abrupt stop in the gravel as we spotted a herd of elk (I had yelled out, "Look at the deer!" and was soon corrected).  This majestic herd (all females because they're missing the enormous antlers, also a tidbit from my dad) bathed in the last swath of evening sunlight as they grazed.  My father has a photographic monstrosity that can capture the hairs on your head from 500 feet away.  We quickly lugged it out and snapped a few shots.  One lovely lady did not immediately run, instead, she stared straight ahead, long pale tongue lashing the grass into her mouth, ears twisting in satellite dish fashion.  She was regal, strong, independent and apparently completely unfazed by our presence.

I want this camera.  I looked at my little silver 7.1 mega-pixel Cannon and felt embarrassed for it.  How can it squeeze out its little turtle lens, blur up an entire field of elk, and shrink back inside with any pride?  With my box, this elk would have looked like a fuzzy brown spot behind a tree; while with my father's fancy camera, you can see the strings of drool falling from her mouth, subtle variations of coloring in her fur, and defined needles in the tree branches.  So, when will my dad sell this gadget to me?  He purchases the latest gadgets every year and between my brother and I, we usually get offered first dibs on them when he's tired.

I mean look at this photo of Ewan and Iris.  It could have been taken in a studio. (If you thought today there would potentially be a post without these two, I'm just not ready yet.)  I finally get that it's all about the camera/lens quality.  My brain aches with the potential photographs that we could take next year: swinging monkeys in the Amazon, sweeping vistas at Machu Pichu, cobblestone boulevards of Bogota, and German villages along the Chilean coast.  Wherever we end up in January, we NEED this camera.  So, I must convince the old man of my need...confuse him that it has too many features to ever be truly enjoyed.  He gets very befuddled when he can't figure something out...and over time this leads to him making the inevitable phone call to negotiate.  What about a wedding gift? an engagement gift?  This goes way beyond a birthday gift....but he does like to barter in such a way that maybe "10 birthday gifts" could be the asking price.  I'll work on it.

Turn it off...

This morning as I swiped the cat hairs from my mouth and scrambled for my screeching cell phone, I thought of my friend Claire.  Her and her fiance Greg would soon be en route to the airport to begin the final countdown for their wedding this weekend.  I couldn't help but smile as I sneezed into my sporty clothes and began to jog up the largest hill I've ever run.  I thought of Vampire Weekend, the band she recently introduced me to, the scary black boots clicking down the hallway that we both used to fear, red boas and tipsy turns on the dance floor, planning meetings at Hole Mole and climbing up into attics one by one.  I wish I could be there this Saturday as they exchange their beautifully written vows, elegant rings, and romantic glances.  A family ceremony sounds like such a sweet and meaningful way to begin married life; and perfect for a couple who so honor and celebrate family.

When I stumbled back up into my room, I had a picture message.  It was Claire and Greg at the airport.  A few minutes later, a shot of the rings floating in a velvet box.  Wow, this is really happening!  A slight tinge of sadness that I won't be there crept up yet again...but it was easily replaced by such a calming sense of joy for what this weekend holds for them.

It strikes me as odd that most of my close friends live so far away.  The women in my life whose voices always offer such support, humor, and understanding are dabbled in Washington, New Jersey, Illinois, and Germany.  These women always manage to snuggle babies, pursue Ph.D's, and tackle timezones to talk with me.  But why is it that the majority of my closest friends are all so far away?  Does this merely reflect my passion for travel and childhood moves or has my relationship with Daniel in some ways created neglect of the development and maintenance of friendships in the LA area?  I am so grateful for these far-away friends but there are afternoons back home when I wish that just one of them lived down the street.  They could stop over for a glass of wine and my latest attempt at lasagna.  They could look at my photographs or listen to my "wedding-although-not-engaged" plans without thinking them silly. 

I'll be thinking about all of these friends today as I jump into my first day with both my 3 year old nephew and my 6 week old niece.  Right now Iris is wrapped tight against my chest....and I imagine she'll be here most of the day.  Ewan is singing with Elmo and has apparently lost his underwear.  My brain is starting to rot from this large amazing television.  Daniel and I made the questionable decision a few months ago to eliminate TV watching and besides the occasional BBC News or chat with Gwen while we cook, we have stuck to our mission.  We didn't stop watching out of intellectual snobbery but rather because I had wriggled into a slight addiction with "The Biggest Loser," and "The Bachelor" (although this one I still sneak on the Internet) and "Entertainment Tonight."  My brain had started to get mushy, bedside books were dusty, and my journal was only 3 pages past January's Italy adventures. 

But here at my brother's there is a beautiful television (if televisions can be called beautiful).  It is a big, shiny, HD, satellite temptation.  I don't know how stay-at-home moms don't all simply melt into the couch all day, nursing, burping, napping, snacking, and watching television.  This is going to be my challenge: to play, imagine, read, dance, listen to music, and sing today with Ewan.  TV must turn off...turn off the TV...but mid-show???...isn't that traumatic for the youngin'?  Maybe we'll finish just this one show....the couch looks so soft. 

Horses & Ankle Weights

This morning I fell deeply in love.  When Iris' slate-blue eyes opened wide and a genuine smile spread across her cherubim face...I was instantly smitten.  And no, she didn't have gas or just want her "mama juice"; she found me humorous, glamorous, and endearing.  I know she likes me.  We hung out all day and I've come to the conclusion that for her I may consider soiling all over my moral fabric...summer days at Disneyland, veal chops, Hummer limos for prom, fur coats, African diamonds, ivory sculpture.

In my world it is now normal to push a stroller past grazing horses and duck ponds wearing ankle weights.  I sprinkle burbing cloths and binkies throughout the house, eat tofurkey sandwiches one-handed, shower while periodically opening the door to check the swing, and run naked and damp through the house with my niece as I try and just get some clothes on before heating up another bottle.  You really shouldn't be caught naked, damp, and running with someone else's baby...there's just no good explanation for it.  I made up for these moments of mutual bewilderment by crooning "Bobby McGee" and "Blue Moon of Kentucky."

This evening as the sky blushed in pink and mandarin, I dove into my novel with a venti-caramel-iced-soy-latte at Megabucks and smiled at my burgeoning love.  This doesn't mean my heart is still not in a torrid affair with big brother Ewan; for tonight's dinosaur lego house and chalk drawings had my heart aflutter...but Iris wears pink and smiles real pretty.

Locked and Loaded

Kathy just left.  Smiling Ewan was lathered in sunscreen and off to school.  I'm officially on duty...day one.

There is a large mug of water waiting to be heated in the microwave, breast milk in the fridge, burping cloths placed in strategic locations, cell phone charged and on low, camera charged and ready, sunscreen & hat out for our walk, car seat locked and loaded into the stroller...waiting on the porch.  Now where's the house key? 

Okay, deep breath.  I'm an old hand at this baby stuff, right?  No problem-o.  4 bottles of Mama Juice - plenty of diapers.  Things are prepared and organized.

Yikes, she stirs!  Here I come....

False alarm, just some girgling.

Nope, real thing.

The Munchkin Countdown

Just like NASA, I want to celebrate my upcoming arrival in Washington with a countdown.  At 11:00am today it will be exactly 10 days until I hold the new baby, Iris, and hug my super-nephew, Ewan.  Their smiles, their tiny hands, their giggles will always be some of the most important details in my life.  I have fallen in love with many children over the years but there is something in Ewan's grin that melts my heart like my bare thighs on Daniel's black leather Audi seats (on a Vegas summer's day).  He is my brother's son; an extension of my family, tossed in the genetics of our Irish/Croatian chex-mix and brightened with his mother's grace, patience, sensitivity, and kindness.

Iris made her grand debut in May and is very anxious to meet me.  She apparently whimpers every few hours just wishing I could be there and look at her here...hands in shear anticipation, eyes squeezed tightly....just imagining my arrival.  "I'm coming, Iris!"  What will she think when her Momma leaves and suddenly the curvaceous, milk-less, cooing stranger tries to soothe her?  How soft are her little toes and those sweet cheeks?  I can't wait to fall in love again.

So, my milk-lovin' niece and my mac'n'cheese nephew, I have been planning our time together.  No rigid schedules posted on the wall but certainly ducks must be fed, slimy tennis balls thrown to Bodhi and Khali, kiddie pools filled for splashing, elbow noodles glued into artwork, books read with funny voices, shooshing swaddling and bottles warmed.....and naps, you both do take naps, right???

My auntie pledge:  I do solemly swear to be patient, loving, and kind.  I will hold your hands tightly, encourage sweet kisses, whisper in your little ears about my pride and love, and smile as you become each day more independent and wise and wonderful.  The countdown begins!

 

Iris' Feet

What will I be doing in 14 days and 5 hours and 6 minutes?  Touching the velvet, wrinkled, buttery sweet feet of my niece, Iris.  There's a strong likelihood of tears and a guarantee of smiles.  My posts shall soon swell with tales of Iris and Ewan.  Days spent bottle feeding, swaddling, playing, singing, making mac 'n' cheese, laughing, and wiping.  The perfect summer vacation.

Robots and Imagination

This picture of my 3 year old nephew, Ewan, as a robot has caused many grins the last few days.  I don't remember the last time that my imagination guided an experience for longer than an instant.  Sure, I can glance at the powerful yoga noodles in down dog and imagine my butt one day reaching that high into the air while my heels stay on the ground.  Of course I can watch the sporty couple this morning briskly pushing a stroller and insert myself and Daniel into that scene (it helped that the baby was covered - made for an easier caramel baby insert). 

But when did I last look at a situation and for hours envision characters, pretend voices, or watch stuffed animals bicker about whose portion of mud pie was larger?  Certainly it hasn't been since the orchard tea parties on Bogey Boulevard.  My best friend Courtney (since the 5th grade) and I had divine parties under the emerald canopy of sour apple buds and gnarled tree trunks.  Lush bumpy orchard grass poking up through the blankets.

I suppose I could grab the Guatemalan fridge magnet family and orchestrate a Mayan ceremony.  The Buddha candle holder could whisper calm musings about Obama to the Kenyan water jug carrier enmeshed in rice paper.  And what would the charcoal tiled Italian dog have to say, held at bay by his chain, laced into an ornate pattern of swirled plaster?  It certainly wouldn't be just "Attenti al Cane."

Ahhhhhh, that was nice.  For a few moments my living room came alive with potential conversations.  I suppose this also signifies that my current novel lays unread, my journal unscrawled, and my nap untaken.  But imagination today-- check that that off the list.