Family

October 28, 2008

Bubbling Characters

I had this vibrant image this morning as I wheeled my teacher cart down the sidewalk, bumping over cracks and dancing around sloshy mud puddles.  I imagined that I was a novelist, with words flowing from my fingertips.  The words bubbled on the page.  I had imbibed such life and luscious detail into the characters, that they took physical shape.  Pealing from the pages...moving into the room with breath and body.  My characters entered my life.  I smiled as we met.

Now, this fanciful walk was surely inspired by the gritty base tones of Toni Morrison, whose voice had filled my car yesterday evening as I drove home in a miserable clusterf--k of traffic.  She was reading from her new novel out next month, A Misery.  I ached to read about Florence and the Dutch trader who purchases her.  Toni scraped my soul in college.  She singed characters into my memory, most of whom have now joined hands with others from Jhumpa, Arundhati, Rohinton, Alice and Zora.  I can isolate a few of her moments of poignant humanity...which for my mind, is a total victory of literary genius.  Tiny babies slain before slave masters arrive, an old man jumping from a roof, a little girl playing with her blue-eyed doll.

Daniel struggles lately to unravel himself in his personal essays for grad. school applications.  I told him to simply "be natural" and to "write without trying to hard."  Yet, do I not sit here with my little blog and labor over each sentence?  Taking what starts as an energy-soaked kernel and overwatering or sunning it into a faltering sprout.

I laughed aloud last night as I curled on the couch, sipped warm Gewurztraminer with ice-cubes, and watched Smart People.  How does a writer pluck such succulent morsels of our common experience and portray them so artfully?  The cantankerous professor, the miserable Young Republican daughter, the poetic biting son.  It was a wonderful film that left my mind spinning with ideas of both how to raise a child that is equally brilliant with words (as the daughter is in the film) but also fluid within relationships.  A child that relishes the tickle of the SAT without scratching it raw.

DSC08571Our eventual parenthood is often a topic of discussion.  It seems to creep into our thoughts after any time spent with the beloved children in our lives.  On Sunday, I slid, sang and smiled with my nephews in San Diego.  Trevor, a brown-eyed dynamo and Caiden, his mellow blue-eyed brother.  How can two siblings be so different?  Personalities that squish out from their very first faces and continue to spread wings that don't resembe one another.  Heather, their mother and my step-sister, had this book on "strong-willed children" and I found it riveting.  As her and my mother diced onions and carrots for the turkey soup, I soaked in passages that were completely opposite of every pedagogical article and text I've read of late.  "Be firm, do not offer options, do not praise proper behavior, enforce the rules, never back down, always battle in cases of disrespect and defiance."  I wondered how this would work in my classroom.  I wondered how this would work with some of the children I know...with the ones I may one day have.  Will I be as tough as I think?  Will I have children that don't interrupt, show respect as they enter and exit a room, use inside voices, and follow the rules?  Will they fear me?  Will I fear them?  Will they look back on their childhoods and be happy I was their mother?

Those are a lot of questions for someone with a bare finger and a pill popped religiously at 8pm.

A weekend which started with touching airy moon jellyfish in the bay, ended with kissing a monkey and an ultimate fighter.  Halloween with all of its candy, chocolate, candled pumpkins, and costumes will soon be here.  My mouth waters with the prospects of all the "borrowed" candy I'll pilfer from pillowcases and bowls.  Mara's children, lacking the raging sugar tooth of most youth, are always such easy and sweet victims.

September 30, 2008

Bastard Elephants and Number Nine

I feel like a gigantic orange-haired tarantula is perched on my head.  My friends say, "Your hair looks nice."  Students say, "I like your hair, Miss"...but I feel that the brassy patches are too much of a contrast.  I love my mother for being willing to dye my hair.  I am the one that stood in front of the mirror and beckoned for more lilac-hued peroxide swipes.  I lost sight of the whimsical wisps shown on the box photo...and went full tilt into lavender swaths.  Now, I think that an orange arachnid is napping on my noggin.

Besides a wee dabble of hair color in front of a ginormous television (with cable...mmmmm....Food Network), my mother's house also offers the always memorable exchanges with my step-father, John (shown here with Fadi).  This is a manAnna's camera 278 who delights in looking at all things under a microscope, mistakes my rock bookends as an actual gift (when they were merely serving as a weight deception for a gift card), and gets bit on the lip from a snarly aged cat into whose face he is puffing.  A man whose eyes radiate warmth and whose mind offers a spigot of creativity and thought.  A man whose hands and heart have never once failed to be there when I need them.

This past weekend's most memorable John-quote:  "Did you know that there over 10 people killed EVERY week from wild elephants?  They have lost their fathers and are hyper-aggressive."

It's important you imagine this quote being said with purposeful emphasis, passion, and true concern.  This current pachyderm theme fits nicely with the wild pigs and disappearing honey-bee anxiety of the past, the pending invasion of killer African bees, and the danger of rhinos.  I am quite convinced that if I ever said I was going on an African safari, he would develop a heart murmur.

So, it was with a tarantula head and a mind contemplating bastard elephants, that I headed over to my cousin's house.  We dolloped Halloween decor around the porch and postponed putting out the headstones and skull lights.  We then took on the dreary task of clearing out the closet, folding shirts, bagging pants, and seeking immediate refuge in the laughter of the children.  Their uncle Classroom.tree 033 arrived carrying the familiar (and yet heartbreaking) swagger, the stubbled cheeks and brown eyes, the laughter and cool that resonates from the men in that family.  Teighler and Trent flocked to his SUV and sat upon the roof as the safari tent was born.  I tried to just smile...to enjoy the sounds of their laughter as they scampered onto the desert camouflage mattress.  As their mom climbed up and the entire family disappeared under the flap, I blinked back tears.  It is such bullshit that Steve is gone.  He should be here.  Swatting Trent's butt as he climbs up the ladder, telling Teighler to hike up her blue pants before she falls on her ass.  I get angry sometimes.  I miss him.  Other days I forget him...and knowing that I forget hurts just as much as trying to always remember.  It sucks.



I ended my Sunday with a nice angular bowl of Vietnamese glass noodles, spiced chicken, and an egg roll.  The ultra-hip noodle house down the street filled my bruised heart with tasty morsels Classroom.tree 037doused in sweet sauce, spring rolls dipped in peanut sauce, and a creme brulee infused with ginger.  Sara and Alyce vibrantly spread their energy and I soaked in their shadows until I could create my own light.  Daniela soon joined us at Portfolio and we moseyed down Retro Row.  The nearly-complete "Lunchin' Ladies" crew from work had ressembled in Long Beach.  I was thrilled.  Our destination was the block of 4th street between Junipero and Cherry that oozes with an independent string of rockabilly, retro, vintage, and antique stores.  Employees are tattooed, pierced and uninterested...not because they are trying to slight you...but because they really look like they have cooler things to do besides watching you finger their wares.  I don't have the guts to sport 99.9% of either the clothes or accessories they sell (not to mention the antiquated body sizes)...but something about just being in these stores makes me more brave.  I slurp up "hipster" on the sly.

I found the weekend ending with an emotion-splashed canvas.  Oranges, the blues, and cherry red swirled together.  I am going to start working on my resume.  I will apply to work at Number Nine...and if they'll hire me for only the few months I have left in my beloved Long Beach...I shall sell lychee-infused tea and ginger-bespeckled creme brulee with unbridled passion. 

September 10, 2008

Until the Canaries or the wedding!

By now, Fadi has crossed the Atlantic, landed in Frankfurt and taken the speed train to Cologne.  Her olive cheeks, at last resting in her own bed, have long since dried of yesterday's morning tears at LAX. 

Water rattles in the tea kettle.  It is my first morning to etch out this year's routine.  My years cycle through a school calendar, thus, my new year has recently begun.  In lieu of the meditation-yoga-Sushi. Last days with Fadi 006 blog-gym routine, I have often opted over the last month to frolic too late, waking groggy and stumbling blog-less onto the freeway, finally reaching work in desperate need for caffeine.  My body kindly requests respite from the Krispy Kreme, "Sexy Girl" sushi rolls (shown here), Kinder chocolate, and sparse exercise.

The most magnificent flavor to recently dance an Irish jig in my mouth was the Cuban cake on Sunday.  Along the bay side of the Peninsula, my Aunt Barbara, set up a blue canopy and invited family down for her Sushi. Last days with Fadi 029birthday.  Holes were dug, strong margaritas were sipped, and after a chilly romp in the murky (slightly questionable) bay water, a Cuban sweet tostada was served.  Imagine a gigantic tortoise-sized tostada shell made of a dark chocolate-pecan encrusted waffle cone.  Layered inside is moist white cake, vanilla flanish-type pudding, pears, peaches, raspberries, and strawberries.  It was divine, not only the cake, but the company, the sand beneath my feet, the berry hue on my face, and the sun slurping up droplets on my skin.

Last night, as we headed to bed, Daniel asked mournfully, "Where's our Fadi?"  I felt a little pull in my chest and I remembered her lilac lips and wet cheeks from our early morning goodbye.  "We will see each other soon," we sniffed.  A Canary Island rendezvous or the one-day wedding of yours truly (no, we're not engaged).  Some event will find us again with red kerchiefs, laughter, and late-night chats.

My porch bench looks lonely.  Her last two crushed cigarettes lie in the blue Croatian ashtray.  Several near-empty bottles of German face wash and body wash sit alone on the bathroom shelf...the wooden earrings she left (or gave?) are on the counter.  Crickets chirp...the paper lands on the scrubby grass...and I know it will be a while until I have marathon discussions with a close girlfriend again.  My friendship circle is lovely; however, with babies, distance, pregnancy, and city life...talk is quickly milked from the udders of already crowded lives.

August 25, 2008

First Day of School Jitters

August 25 first day of schoolIt's the first day of school.  Here I am just minutes ago...hair damp awaiting gel, no make-up, tea kettle on the verge of whistling...it's 5:00am.  I awoke an hour ago and practiced fifteen minutes of meditation and yoga.

Dog collars jingle faintly past the screen door, the newspaper has been pitched onto the lawn...and I wait for the coffee.

Normally, I would be at the gym by now.  Just beginning some version of cardio while I scan the LA Times for an article of interest; however, my back spasms keep me slightly groggy at home...trying not to be that teacher that shows up on the first day of school at 6:00am.  I mean do I REALLY need to fuss with all of the items again?  Syllabi are copied, activities are ready, and the board is labeled with the agenda and homework.

This may be my last "first day" teaching high school.  I don't feel saddened by this concept...merely reflective of my previous eight "first days" and hopeful that the next few months will bring me more clarity as to whether I wish to stay in this version of education...or education at all, for that matter.  I reassure my rumbling stomach that the day will go smoothly but I can never completely still my jitters on the first day.  I've been more mindful and centered this summer.  Bits of yoga and meditation nuzzling into nooks in my body.  I will draw on these reserved pools of solace today whenever my tummy starts to flit about.

The coffee is ready...

Mmmm, that's delicious.  Creamer clumps with lots o' splenda.  This may be better than cardio for my morning mo-jo.  Dangerous precedent...caffeine over exercise.  I need my back to heal.  I need to figure out what it is that creates the sensation of a thick spastic belt cinching around my tail bone...causing a funky lean, a waddling walk, and general crankiness (and these three then make quick friends with the lurking overeater)...and you see where this is heading.

Yesterday, on my last day of summer, I relished watching the boys with their Legos.  These interlocking plastic bricks hold August 24 llegos with Trent and Daniel 005 little interest to me...besides the basic sorting into colors, stacking, knocking over, and re-sorting.  Boys; however, find hours of fun in following intricate directions ("doesn't that take away from the creativity," I ask myself) to create space-walking-Star Trek Wars-shooters.  Apparently, the Trek vs. Wars mistake is highly offensive...I am not sure why, since people who watch Trek usually enjoy Wars and vice versa; however, I have been duly warned from the stitched brows under the New York cappy of "Uncle Daniel." 

By the way, when you love a baby, love a toddler, cherish, hug, kiss a child for five years...then your boyfriend, with a megawatt smile and prowess for snapping parts into other parts (using directions, mind you) is the ultimate cool...and upon leaving all you hear are Trent's gruff shouts of "Bye, Uncle Daniel..bye, Uncle Daniel"...the only mature response is to shout back..."What am I, chopped liver???"

And that's why I'm the adult..and I can sort Legos by color. 

August 15, 2008

Thank Thank

As she pounded my arms and pulled my fingers, she spoke with her colleague.  Both smiled, dripping Mandarin and warm oil on my skin.  My cousin and I both had our feet steaping in wooden buckets, dim lights and electric waterfall paintings, elevator music floating from speakers mounted on the olive paste walls.  Each day is an effort to fill the hours with pampering or errands, grief lubricating any break in our agenda.  The most simple things become a reminder of the future complexity of everything.

I've tried to assess just how much I depend on Daniel.  Not for companionship and romance...but for daily tasks, a sense of normalcy.  How much has this man (after only a few years) settled into every nook and cranny of my life, with breath, smile, words, and thought?  And if our vines continue to twist and wrap up into the light and a marriage and children and a decade pass...how would I feel at my first glimpse of morning without him?  How would I find the strength to face the ominous four letters after "Marital Status" on medical paperwork?   M - S - W - D    The pen would surely, through both habit and avoidance, circle the M.  And next to "Spouse's Information," would I carve an "N/A" or simply leave it blank and pray for no further questions.

How do you keep your balance in the sympathy stream, as each successive person with their damp eyes and loving hearts, simmers your grief a little longer?  It is sheer bravery and obligation that brings a spouse to a funeral.  I want to sleep tonight without dreaming; I want to be grateful as Daniel tosses in the summer heat; I want to greet tomorrow's sunrise with gratitude.

As we all said tonight at Ava Foot Massage, "谢谢" or "xièxiè" or "thank thank."

 

August 14, 2008

Tiggers are wonderful things!

My mind is a blur, I forget the simple things.  I am strong for my cousin, for she has lost a husband, but each night as I drive away from her...I fall apart.  Friends gently remind me that I have a right to my own grief, my own sadness...but in the company of those who knew him best and loved him most, it doesn't feel justified somehow to break down.  Could I have spent more time with him?  Could I have been there more for his family while he was fighting his battle?  These questions muttle with searing pain as I drive each evening on the freeway, lanes and lights whizzing by.  The entire way home I sob, I ask the questions that everyone during the day repeats; I feel guilty, I smile with memories and then grimace with loss; I try and keep his voice alive in my mind.  Most of all, I feel sad.  I've never known a more illuminating person to have lost their light.

I found this late last night from the infamous Last Lecture by Randy Plausch, "Decide if you're Tigger or Eeyore.  I think I'm clear on where I stand on the great Tigger/Eeyore debate.  Never lose the childlike wonder.  It's just too important.  It's what drives us.  Help others."

"Childlike wonder.  Help others."  I can be better at both of these things.  I can not allow guilt for what I should have been to in any way tarnish who I can be now.  There are people and children in my life today that could use a hug, a laugh, and some frozen yogurt.  I want to bound into my life today, the gracious and healthy life that I am blessed to have.  I want to look at pictures, celebrate and relish the lives still living, tell my Grandma that I love her, be grateful for the family and friends that surround me.

Tiggers are wonderful things.

August 13, 2008

The Game of Life

August_102008_ginger_icecreamlife_gBlue and pink pegs filled my little green car.  I decided whether to pursue college or a career, got engaged, payed my taxes, and won the lottery.  This childhood game had changed...it now had a second opportunity for post-career children, investment portfolio options, selling starter homes, and retirement alleys rife with financial risk or relative calm.  I played this game with Trenton, Teighler, and Daniel on Sunday.  Their mom, Cheryl, was visiting their dad, Steve, at the hospital.  The four of us had a nice day.  We joyfully played the game of life.  We could read ahead on the spaces and knew what to predict; we understood our chances; we took risks with paper money.  At the end, the board and all of the plastic pieces were tossed into the box.   Set aside for future play.

But the real game of life has changed for these children, for Cheryl, for all of us who loved their father, Steve.  A man of incredible strength, illuminating energy, brilliant mind, and steadfast courage has died.  I have never been more humbled by someone's bravery in their last breaths or so saddened by someone's departure from my life.  I spent all day gathering moments, memories and conversations in my mind.  Trying to place them solidly in my mind for safe protection amidst the blur.  I can't imagine losing the person you love the most in the world, facing life's milestones without a father, a brother, a son, or for me a dear cousin/friend.

August 06, 2008

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 Kiddos_490length 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 Dsc08935shady 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.

Dsc08907There 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 Dsc08947as 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.

August 04, 2008

Columbia is a possibility

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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.

83_and_84_trip_to_snoqualmie_and__4These 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 81_and_82_fruit_stand_visit_006cobbler 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.

81_and_82_fruit_stand_visit_007_2Iris 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 83_and_84_trip_to_snoqualmie_and__3found 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 Rosyln_cafe a store hawking dusty Northern Exposure memorabilia.  An enormous MarlinMarlon_brando_roslyn_2 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.

83_and_84_trip_to_snoqualmie_and__5My 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.

July 27, 2008

Kicking the Patchwork Quilt Blues

724_through_727_rafting_weekendwe_3

I am sitting here on a patchwork quilt feeling slightly blue... staring down at my neglected tennis shoes, questioning whether I can really muster up the energy to go to the gym.  Daniel's plane flies overhead back towards Seattle and his last soft kisses from an hour ago still linger on my face.  Our last minutes together spent alongside the river, taking cheesy photographs, and enjoying the breeze and the sound of rushing water.  My nephew yammers downstairs about a toy.  My niece requests attention with a sweet little cry.  One black furry dog sighs at my feet.

Four amazing days with Daniel at my brother's, my dad's, and Courtney's have come and gone.  By this evening, we'll be back to frequent emails and phone calls again until next Monday when I come home.  We realize we have been extremely spoiled these past two summers.  Both of us on summer vacation; nothing on our agendas except new cocktail recipes, chasing tennis balls, and relaxing together with our books or the paper.  I can rationalize that I have nothing to complain about...a spectacular man, a loving relationship, supportive friendship, only 8 more days apart...but still I miss him and his green Vespa t-shirt already.

724_through_727_rafting_weekendwenaOur river rafting adventure yesterday was incredible.  Daniel's cousin, Jake, was even able to join us for the trip.  You couldn't have asked for a more serene float down the Wenatchee River.  The sun beat down with 85 degrees, the water was crisp and cool, and the cooler full of beers and snacks made the 4 hour ride even merrier.  Courtney's husband, Carl, who grew up on the river, guided us down in his father's grey raft.  He backed us into mossy caves with sparrow nests, pointed out osprey habitat, spun folklore about trolls up waterfalls and apple juice pipe lines, surfed mid-stream, and managed to even put us into a few exciting rapids.  But the majority of the ride was mellow.  Calm enough for beers to ride comfortably in the cleavage pocket of your life jacket.  There was even time to relish chicken pita sandwiches atop old tires and crates on a sandy island.724_through_727_rafting_weekendwe_2

The evening held soft tacos and mojitos (with fresh mint from Courtney's yard).  Funny napkins, twinkling lights, a vibrant sunset, and a foamy hot tub finally put our sun drenched brown faces into bed.  It's hard to look across the table at friends, wonderful friends who you would love to eat dinner with a couple times a week, and 724_through_727_rafting_weekendwe_4realize that it will be at least another year until you see their smile in person.  To look at my 12 year old Godson, Jonah, and his 1 year old brother, Abram, and know that a teenager and toddler will greet me on this porch upon my return.

I have lived most of my life split between Washington and California.  The southern state becoming ever more my foundation of home with school, work, social network, and my mother's family.  The northern state forever holding the families of my father and brother, my dear friend and my childhood.  It's a perpetual tug o' war of my heart....always enjoying one at the expense of the other.  The price of admission for so many children of divorce and the simple geographical spread of our global society.  The internet, cell phones, and Jet Blue have given us this sense that we are all closer than reality.  You think you're maintaining friendships and relationships from afar with a depth that 724_through_727_rafting_weekendwe_6new technology allows but something is missing.  Today I know what the flowers look like on Courtney's porch.  I can see her watering them, grimacing about the aphids on the leaves.  Next year these flowers will have died, been replaced by new ones...and I probably won't even notice, but this means something.  It means that those little things that we take for granted, pass in time, change over the years, and geography and yearly visits can only recapture the big moments.

I should be grateful that I know Ewan's favorite food and book and toy.  These things will change...Iris will walk and talk in a year...but I will have been a part of it for now.  Speaking of being a part of it, I'm going to leave this patchwork quilt, shove my gym shoes aside for yet another day, smile that Daniel is now in Seattle hunting for dinner at the airport, and go see why Ewan is making so much racket on the stairs. 

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