Out-twinkling the angels (Just Write)

Dani, you never met my Grandma, your Nana's mama. You were still growing in my belly when we hugged her last in the shadeless Palm Desert heat. But really, it's not accurate to say we hugged Grandma. Rather, she hugged us. She could squeeze so much love into a single embrace. There wasn't anything frail about her.

She wasn't the sort of grandma who went to the salon each week to set her hair. She was the feisty sort, the one who never wore a skirt, not even to church. (But you'd love her anyway, Dani, I know you would.) I'll picture her forever in a mid-80s puffed-sleeved sweat suit, her black hair ever short in tight wiry curls. She wore freckled skin, just like you and me; and her eyes could out-twinkle Santa's.

She knew what it meant to love people exactly where they were, without demands. She didn't make them move an inch to meet her, no probationary period required. She lived with her arms wide open, reckless with compassion. I've only recently come to understand how much courage it takes to live the way she did--to give the benefit of the doubt so freely, to throw every chip in every time, to love "all in". But I doubt she would've called it courage. She would have tossed up her hands and shook her grinning head side to side and quipped, "I guess your grandma's just crazy that way!"

Speaking of crazy, I should tell you about the time she took my mom, my sister and me to Yosemite. I can't remember how old I was, maybe 10? Anyway, it was snowing up a storm that day, and there was talk of closing the park. But we were halfway from Fresno to the park entrance before we got the warning, and she wasn't the sort to turn back on account of a little precipitation. When the sign popped up requiring chains for further travel, Grandma simply put on the chains, and on we went. We made it into the park just before they closed the roads into the valley. I clutched the inside of the car door and held my breath in fear as we slid and skidded down that steep, switchback of a road. I can't imagine how she even saw the road in front of her with the snow so thick in the air.

We passed one car hanging off the side of a cliff, another wedged into the side of the mountain. When we finally (miraculously) reached the valley, we nearly fell out of the car in relief. We walked a few steps in the direction of Half Dome, stretched our arms wide, threw our heads back and looked at the sky in every direction, watched as Mother Nature sewed the thickest, most spotless quilt of snow a mountain range could wear. Never have I felt a stronger sense of awe and wonder than in that moment, on that day when Grandma and I stood in that silent valley and looked up.

For 88 years Grandma lived this way, undaunted by treacherous roads, unhindered by convention, always looking up. She died this morning, "born into glory", as we crazy Christians like to say. And I'll tell you, Dani, these are the days when I'm never so glad to believe in heaven. I picture Grandma there now--still in her 1985 jogging suit--laughing her belly laugh, hugging anyone who comes within three feet of her, out-twinkling the angels.

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I love the view from here

Where cousins and scientific curiosity meet.

 

Where you can jump higher than imagined, and still land safely.

 Where you can climb halfway to heaven without leaving your front yard.

Where you can go out on a limb for what feels like forever and still make it back for afternoon snack.

Yes. I love the view from here.

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As long and obvious as an Ohio winter

The substitute-a-harvest-party-for-halloween people are smart. Because sure as heck those saints aren't going to be traipsing around in 39-degree weather along with their shivering Cinderellas and Luke Skywalkers. Even the force and fairy dust combined are no match for the chocolate-freezing chill of northeast Ohio. (The only good side here being that the Snickers I'll be stealing from the kids' candy bags will already be the perfect freezer temp).

As we prepare to go trick-or-treating tonight with "the cousins", do you know what scares me the most? The battle I'm undoubtedly going to have with Cinderella about wearing her winter coat.

But it could be worse, I guess. We could have snow on the sidewalks like our old neighbors in Virginia and Maine. Or we could have rain, like we've had every bloody day this year when it isn't already snowing. Okay, I'm exaggerating ever so slightly. But really, if we're going to break weather records in Ohio, couldn't it be in the abundant sunshine category for once?

All complaining aside, the truth is I'm so very thankful. And not in the I'm-only-looking-at-the-bright-side-'cause-I'm-supposed-to way. Really, this morning, the gratitude comes easily. The list is as long and obvious as an Ohio winter.

For living close enough to my sister that we can get our families together for dinner and dress-up.

That the kids' fevers that came and went before the holiday.

For snickers bars and reeses cups and hot apple cider.

For the beauty of change, for seasons that sing four beats to a measure, giving us an unforgettable rhythm beneath the harmony of tradition and memory.

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A Quiet Harvest

I've been quiet here for a while and will be for a bit longer. Life, on the other hand, remains loud, bright-colored, a harvest I can barely process, at times too much for words. This is one of those times. But what I lack in words, I'll give you in smiles.

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How many days 'till we go back?

Six months ago, when Caed found out Nana and Papa had booked a summer reunion at our favorite lodge, he said, "Oh man, it's like a dream come true! Better than Disneyland! Better than anything!" 

And with four months left to go, he began a countdown. Every morning on the way to school he'd ask, "How many days to the lodge?" And slowly my answer slid from 122 days to next week. On day T minus 30, he created a book about the lodge with pages listing the names of the cousins attending, a countdown for crossing out, and lyrics to a new song he and Dani would sing once we were on our way.

We sang it on Tuesday. He put me in charge of the echo. Here we go, rocking and rolling, to the lodge (to the lodge)...

 

As we drove away yesterday, I asked him if it was everything he'd hoped it would be.

"Yes," he smiled. "Do you think there's a lodge like that in heaven?"

"I do." I returned his grin in the rearview mirror. "Except without the mosquitoes." 

"Good." He settled back into his booster. "I was hoping that."

"Oh, and Mom? How many days 'till we go back there?"

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The Lodge

Today we paddled and splashed and jumped,
found turtles and tadpoles,
caught fish and whiffle balls.

We ran into lakes, out of bug spray and time,
served peach pie and volleyballs,
turned a hammock into a swing,
a moment into a memory.

Fifteen--14 and under--that's the latest math.
And we set the tables for 25.
Yes, I said tables as in plural.
So you shouldn't judge me for using paper plates
when it's my turn to cook dinner.
Okay? Okay.

Tomorrow we will
catch more fish
and buy more bug spray
and swim and paddle and jump
and be a family ( a big one).
And there's even talk of s'mores
and flashlights and
a dance party.

And even if I forget (again) to take pictures,
we will remember
the feel of the carved wood table we crowded around,
the sound of the tree frogs at sunset,
the squeeze of the go-to hiding spot,
and these looks, these unforgettable looks on our faces.

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Memories, Rain or Shine

Since I'm not keen on taking pictures of the (or in the) rain, photos from the past two weeks haven't exactly been piling up.

But I do have a few. And I'm going to share them now, before another week goes by. And before Ohio breaks any new rain records. Oh wait--that already happened. Can you say rainiest April in northeast Ohio history?

That ought to teach me not to whine about the rain when April had only begun.  Because April tends to take things a wee bit personally. "Oooh. Them are fightin' words. You call that rain, Lady? I'll show you RAIN!"

Simmer down, April. Sheesh. We get it. You're in charge of showers. And you take your job VERY seriously. 



So, without further adieu, here are a few of the rare April moments we spent sans umbrellas.

Dani is into scaling walls lately.  It's a big help to me when this new passion can be practiced outdoors, as opposed to say, using her new lego table (thanks Grandma!) to climb to the top of her closet to pull down her "summer d'esses", the ones she's begs to wear Every. Single. Day.

 

And I just had to post this one, because how often does Ohio give us sunshine AND new friends?

Okay, this next picture might have been sans umbrellas, but the truth is, we probably could've used one. Notice the boots and winter coats for the easter egg hunt? Lovely.

The day after the Artic Egg Hunt on Swamp Lawn, the sun actually showed its face, in time for soccer! Dani still can't dribble without giggling. Which is totally fine. I heard Mia Hamm was the same way when she was four.

While his sister's team played, big brother waited on the sidelines and talked strategy with his teammates. Well, not strategy so much as science. I overheard him speculating about our planet's internal temp with a fellow six year old, "Do you know that scientists believe the earth's core is hotter than the sun?"

Good to know that if he can't bend it like Beckham, he's on track to make the high school Mathlete team.

Pig tails and freckled noses. Pause with me here for a moment while I melt into a pile of mush from all the cuteness.

Okay, so forgive me for being one of those parents. But I just have to tell you that when it was Caed's turn to play, he schooled the budding soccer players in more than science. The little guy tore it up out there. But so much more than the goals he scored (more than 15, but who's counting?), his great attitude and sportsmanship made me really proud.  Really, I'm not just saying that. Okay, so maybe his sportsmanship and burgeoning athletic ability were tied in the parental pride category. But can you blame me? One minute I think he's headed for Chess Club and Future Engineers of America, and the next I'm wondering whether he might be playing U14 Premiere at age 11. And you've gotta admit--soccer is way more fun to watch than chess.

 

Okay, my shallow gushing over sports was a bit embarrassing. But now that my secret is out--that I'm going to have to try ridiculously hard not to live vicariously and compete through my children--I can move on to less incriminating pictures, like these--of Easter at my sister's house.

 

 

 This last picture? It makes me a hundred kinds of happy. This is why I can forgive Ohio and April for raining on parades and egg hunts and just about everything that transpired in the last month, because they gave me this picture. Of family, together, and sweet memories, rain or shine.

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In which the water rises but my blood pressure doesn't

My week was hijacked by floods and spiders. I'm not a huge fan of either one of those things, but to try cleaning up two inches of water in your basement while worrying about where the (poisonous!) funnel spiders are hiding, well it was almost enough to send me careening off the gratitude wagon.

You know how in the cartoons they show a frazzled, perhaps recently electrocuted, wet and shaggy, crazy-eyed cat hanging on by one paw, flapping in the wind like a flag? That would be me this week. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Except for the crazy eyes and maybe the shagginess. That part's real.

Anyway, I hung on, whispering thanks when I could, asking for grace when I couldn't. And wouldn't you know it, the list is longer than ever?

#54 The profound sense of satisfaction I felt after going all homicidal on a funnel spider
(And you can add to YOUR gratitude list that I'm not showing a picture of the dead spider here.)

#55 Reinforcement (for me, for the kids) that it's "just stuff"

#56 Prayers that reach a God who sees, a God who cares

#57 Soft green fleece, my go-to winter gear

#58 Yak-trax

#59 Ice shimmying off trees like cliff-diving teenagers

#60 Snow day!

#61 Waffles served before we lost power

#62 Play dough lattes (because while I had finished making the waffles, I had yet to make my coffee when the electricity failed)

#63 Power restored after just one hour!

#64 Real--as in double-shot, light on the milk--coffee, made the minute the power returned

#65 A very heavy pile of library books

#66 A boy who clambers to read them

#67 Pink mac-n-cheese. Delish, I tell you.

#68 A snowstorm giving us one more shot at skiing for the season

#69 And with the cousins this time!

#70 A husband willing to forgo pre- and post-night-shift sleep to take his son and nephews skiing

#71 A sister who never fails to bring the best snacks, and whose proximity is, hands down, my number one reason to love living in Ohio

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When My Sister Says Drive, I Say "How Far" (And Then I Check the Weather)

Only after we made it, safely seated in the airy food court with our five children and seven sandwiches, did my sister and I joke about whose idea it was to meet up in Rochester in the middle of winter. It was hers, in case you're wondering.

With her husband still deployed (and her birthday and anniversary looming), I wasn't surprised when I asked how I could help, what she wanted, and she said,  "A distraction."

So she drove west, and I drove east, both toward reunion, both along the highway stretching lake to lake. Interstate 90, the great gray line of American gloom.  We've learned, in this snow belt existence, never to underestimate the usefulness of knowing where the road is, particularly as it pertains to ditch avoidance. And so we sat thankful for seeing the road for at least most of the trip, for making it to this anti-climatic scene of promising the kids sun chips in exchange for two more bites of turkey.

We spent the whole of the afternoon at the National Museum of Play. I can't begin to say how much we enjoyed it. And after four hours of fervent playing, I also can't begin to say how much I wanted to curl up in a ball on the Bernstein Bear's bed and hibernate for an hour or twelve.


I see how in just a weekend, the list can grow, and with it, this feeling of gratitude:

#17 Ditch avoidance
#18 Dani dancing and/or skipping everywhere for the first three hours of our museum visit
#19 Cousins getting lost in play together

#20 Castles and theater and dress up and tea parties

#21 Tinker toys and science and secret rooms with secret treasures

#22 Shopping and scanning and printing a real receipt, and oh, the looks on those faces

#23 Adjoining hotel rooms in which to crash, worth way more than the bargain price we paid

#24 Dani and Glory snuggling in matching jammies, listening to stories

#25 Purple boots and pink snowpants handed down, exactly the right size

#26 Talking with my sis for those precious few hours after the kids finally fell asleep

#27 And for the Sunday morning that came too quickly....a drive-through Starbucks

#28 Did I mention the drive-through Starbucks? Well, it won't hurt to count it twice. It was a double shot, after all.

#29 Joining Larry's extended family (uncle, aunt, cousins) for worship in a sweet, vibrant church

#30 A lovely Sunday afternoon meal--one I didn't have to cook!--with loved ones

#31 The kindness Larry's cousins (much closer in age to our children than to Larry) showed toward Caed and Dani, how my kids begged to stay and hated to leave

#32 A safe, snowless drive home

#33 Having just enough butter to make the snickerdoodles I'd promised for Valentine's Day

#34 Having just enough bubblegum flavored Motrin to get my now feverish girl through the night

#35 The faint sound of spring in the wind, the way 45 degrees feels blooming warm

#36 The icicles shedding winter in drips, agreeing with the groundhog, at least for today

#37 Oh, and just now, right as I was going to hit publish, as a test no doubt of my gratitudinal (yes, I made that word up) fortitude, my little girl covered her sheets with the dinner from four hours back. So let's make #37 gratitude for washing machines, and

#38 For a husband on his way home from work with a fresh bottle of children's tylenol...

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Dear December

Oh December. I love you, really I do. But you need to slow down, lay off the caffeine, maybe take a lesson from February on how to last forever.

You hosted our wedding fifteen years ago, sifting snow--white as a wedding cake--across the church lawn, spelling congratulations with your confectionery weather. And here we are again after fifteen winters gone, back in the snowbelt, battling icicles with broomsticks for control of the gutters. Here we are, not so far from the little church on Satin Street.

You were the one month in which I didn't want to be due. "I want to have another baby," I announced to my sister. "Any month but December--I don't care which one."

Next thing I know, I'm talking with the hostess at the Capital Grille.

"Yes, it's our 11th anniversary."
"Congratulations!"
"Thank you."
"And when are you due?"
"Monday! Oh, and I don't think a booth will work for us. I'll need a chair that scoots back. Way back."

Oh, dear, dear December, you gave me my baby girl.

And as if all of this isn't enough. (It is. It is.) You brought your traditional holiday blend again this year...

Visits with family and old friends, a day in pajamas, a hike in the snowy woods, 25 days of advent, a hint of wonder, a dollop of joy. (If we're being honest, you also brought a fair share of stress and scrambling, but I'm going to do you a solid and overlook your decidedly less magical side.)



Dear December, please don't make me beg. You know I love you. It seems like you've only just arrived, and now you're gathering your things, ready to split, leaving me alone to face 2011 and three more months of snow. Are you sure you can't linger, just a little bit longer?

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