Cottage

Every year the three of us look forward to our October vacation. Our destination is never a question; nothing to ponder, consider or mull over. We always head to the beach. (In the winter I think our blood somehow begins to crave a certain synchronicity with the waves.) Over the years we have stayed in a variety of places, some small hotels and a few cozy cottages. I have often wondered what it would be like to take the very best parts of each and create something new. The rooftop patio of one, the loft another, the beautiful surroundings of a third, the shutters and windowboxes of yet another, and lastly, the proximity to the beach from an especially lovely house. If I could, I would take all the pieces and, like the LEGOs that I still find strewn and scattered about the rooms here, build a respite where we could retreat in complete comfort. Often.

What would we keep in our house by the sea? Books and bicycles, picnic baskets and tea. Everything would have a use and a place where we could find it. Nooks and crannies filled with everything one would need for a day at the beach. Though having your own seaside spot does take away from the charm of a borrowed cottage. Vacationing in someone else’s home offers the chance to poke about and explore; treasures to be found, unfamiliar bookshelves to be browsed. A climbing of the stairs to the great unknown, pushing open the door to discover what lies beyond.

Either way, a house of my own, a few rooms borrowed for the weekend, or even a shelter of sticks and tarp--as long as the sea is nearby, then it’s absolutely perfect.
~b




You are all invited to a housewarming party at my cottage on the beach. I don't know which beach yet. But there will be porches with rocking chairs, benches in herb gardens, a volleyball net for those of you who feel the need to express yourself physically, a fire pit for roasting marshmallows and small children, and a bar. And a Great Room with lots of speakers and bookshelves, with a hardwood floor on which we are going to dance to old Billy Joel and maybe some bluegrass. I'll make appetizers, most of them with fresh ginger, crab meat and watercress, and my mom will make quiche, and M will pass out headlamps for people who want to go skinny dipping after dark. You'll need the headlamps in order not to walk into one of the rose bushes lining the sand path to the private beach. And to navigate the leaning wooden stairs that traverse the delicate dune. Once you've finished with your swim - all dripping and giggly and slightly bashful but mostly proud that you were naked! in the water! with other people nearby! at your age! - come back to the cottage and we'll sip cinnamon coffee and tell stories about relatives who are now dead and so won't get mad. It will be a night of luminous fun. The kind of night we'll try to recreate a year later, but it will rain, and someone will have forgotten the recipe for sangria, and no one will even suggest skinny dipping, and the ginger will be powered instead of fresh. But the first party, that one - be sure to come. I will let you know as soon as I've found a cottage on the beach that I can afford. It might be a few (dozen) years, but I'll send an invite. Bring a friend. Children welcome.
~a

Bath

The moments I will miss the most when my babies are grown are the moments that right now inspire the most exasperation.

Like grocery shopping. These days it's a headache - three asky boys hanging off the cart at various angles, me trying to navigate cramped aisles, focus on my list, and avoid running over other children, all while fielding a barrage of questions: "No, we may not get three different kinds of ice cream and no, we are not going to get a bunch of balloons, and really do you think I'm going to say yes to Coke?”

And bedtimes. I love snuggling in the big bed and reading stories and listening while their breathing slowly dials down to low, but not every. single. night. Sometimes I want to drink a second (or third) glass of wine and watch chirpy British crime shows.

And tubbies. How many tubbies have I expedited over the past nine years? Washing boys' heads can be exhausting if you do it night after night after night. But I know that someday I'll be brushing my teeth or washing my hands at that usual time in the evening when the sky outside turns pink and I'll miss the splashing, the gleaming little bodies, the sense of everyone safe in the house. This picture of B is already ancient - he was a baby then. Already he is a huge boy with opinions on bath toys and water temperature. Already my children need me less and this is both liberating and terrifying, like I'm losing my usual excuse for lack of success in other areas. Like gainful employment. But for now I bring my wine and a book and settle on the bathmat while B plays pirate, submarine, fireman, and sharks vs. fish. When he splashes, I scowl. And then we laugh together and he splashes some more.
~a




This week I had one of those days that felt like forever. I was at the Library from sun up till way past sun down (or so it seemed). All throughout the day people kept coming in and remarking on the weather, they just couldn’t get over how warm it was. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to step outside until darkness had already fallen. When I got home I remembered that the moon was going to be very large and beautiful that evening. I got out my camera and waited. It seemed like the clouds kept getting in the way, or my hands kept shaking, or cars were whizzing by without fully understanding how close they were to me. After awhile I went inside, surprised at how the cold had given me an extra surge of energy, an unexpected gift. Putting my camera away and returning my bags of knitting and books to their rightful place, I felt all of my enthusiasm drain away. I decided that a bath would be the perfect remedy to the situation.

As the tub filled and I began to anticipate the warmth of the water washing over me, I noticed this other moon smiling down at me. This is the image that adorns the package of tub tea given to me years ago by a very dear friend. The original contents are long gone, but the smile remains; presiding over the towels, soap and assorted bathroom accessories. I often receive special soaps, bath bubbles and beads as stocking stuffers and presents for Christmas. Truth be told I often give these gifts as well, wishing others a quiet moment free from stress and other family demands. Somehow Christmas itself is always full of pressure and stress and the need to do more, more, more. Amidst all of the chaos I try to step outside it all and watch some of my favorite films, made all the more special because we only watch them once a year. Conjuring up images from “It’s A Wonderful Life,” I am reminded of the scene in which George and Mary, walking home from an impromptu bath in the pool at the school, are dancing by the light of the moon. I sometimes wish I lived in a black and white world or at least a simpler time with claw footed tubs, and fluffy towels taken straight from the dryer and wrapped tightly round you. Whether it’s watching an old film or soaking in a hot tub, I wish you five (or more) minutes peace this week.
~b

Sheep

I know some people count sheep in order to get to sleep. I say why wait until bedtime. I am surrounded by sheep all day long. 1. There's the curly ram that rides in my car. 2. The bank given to me by a friend that sits in front of my placemat at the table, a companion to each of my meals. 3. The card I bought at the Holly Meade studio that T and I accidentally stumbled upon when we got lost in Maine. (She wrote and illustrated a family favorite: “John Willy and Freddy McGee.”) 4. The knitted sheep that came from Columbia when friends adopted their son. 5. The wooly slippers that adorn my feet when the temperatures drop. 6. The lone glow-in-the-dark sheep that has somehow survived after all of the other flock has gone. Where I'm not quite sure and as I'm not a shepherdess I don't know how to call them home. Perhaps they are helping other kids to conquer their fear of being alone in the dark. Or maybe they are off having adventures like the sheep we used to read about when T was little. They were often: on a ship, in a shop, and our favorite, in a jeep. As with the adventures in the aforementioned guinea pig tale, there are lines I can recite still.

If for no other reason, I love these fuzzy animals for the wool that they give, allowing me to knit the hats, scarves and shawls that I bestow to family, friends and brand new babies. If I could, I would most certainly have a lamb (or two) in our backyard. But when the weather turned, I would want to bring it inside, and I just don't think we have the room. Quite simply: Sheep are sweet. Sheep are super. Sheep are swell.
~b




All week I have been wondering about sheep. I considered writing about my summertime stints as a waitress at the GyroWrap Cafe in Georgia where lamb meat was shaved off giant, ever-turning spits and delivered to tables where large parties tipped badly and spoke so thickly sometimes I couldn't quite catch the meaning of their words. Or I could write about the plea posted to the town's listserv by our local sheep farmer for all of us to keep our eyes out for a missing sheep. Which was sad. And then a bit scary as we all pondered (digitally) what might be large enough and motivated enough to drag said missing sheep away. I could write about wool, my mother's constant clicking needles guiding that wool into sweaters, socks, shawls, hats. I even thought about riffing on Shaun the Sheep. How I envy that solitary farmer, set in his ways, fermenting in a damp stone cottage with only his faithful dog and independent farm animals to interrupt his pizza and telly. But March is already long, the days are still gray like the ropey coats of dirty farm animals, and so this. A lovely label on a delectable wine, shared with family on a night that feels almost feels like spring. Almost feels like it's time for the lambing.
~a

Memory

Sorry for the posting delay. Equation of excuse: ice storm plus power outage plus sick children.




Three children in the family means a one-to-one child-parent ratio is fairly rare, unless you're the baby, who tends to be my constant extra appendage (a welcome one. Mostly.). But Sunday night T and I braved sleety rain, billowing curtains of snow, and roads of steely glare during our drive to and from Vermont to see dearest b - the other writer of this blog - graduate, an event all the sweeter for its allowance of time alone with my oldest son.

The last time T and I were alone for anything other than our nightly few minutes reading together before bed, the movie Ratatouille was in the theaters and I declared date afternoon with my first born. It was warm, it was raining. We were late. Shocking, I know. We ran from the car to the Nugget Theatre, T riding on my back and giggling in a purely kid-like way that he doesn't often do, that he has never often done even when he was younger. We sat right up front, him on my lap, and ate our weight in Reeses Pieces, and afterward walked slowly back to our car in air that was darker and dryer. “I hope we do this a lot when you grow up,” I told him. “When I live in New York City we can go to movies all the time,” he told me. Back then he wanted to live in New York City; now he wants to live in Ancient Greece. “I hope you remember this,” I told him. He didn't answer; I remember that he didn't answer.

I haven't asked him if he remembers that afternoon. If he doesn't I'll have to remind him of it with all my own interpretive phrasing.

Sunday night we arrived home late, tired, soggy. Happy, and somehow proud of our admittedly stunted journey to Vermont. We retired our boots on the mat and even though it was way past bedtime we spent a few minutes reading together in bed. We may not have traveled all that far, but being together made the trip broad and lingering. I'll remember it. I'll remember T reading his book during the welcoming reception, leaning against me through long happy speeches, and remarking that the french fries he ate with dinner on our way home made him feel "strangely sad." I hope T will remember, too. But we don't quite get to choose what our children remember, what they forget from their concentrated time with us. We just have to hope the lasting images aren't all chores, homework and time outs.
~a




From the first page of Eleanor Brown's “The Weird Sisters”: 'These [letters] were the kind you save, folded into a memory box, to be opened years later with fingers against crackling age, heart pounding with the sick desire to be possessed by memory.'

This is what I will remember. Inspiring words. Hugs. Tears. Poems read aloud. The tuneful melody of a song being performed by a band of friends. Cheers. Shouts. The campus called a Narnia. Smiling husbands and exuberant sons. A room full of intense emotions. Love.

I gave my presentation to a roomful of family, friends and interested students on Sunday; followed by our graduation ceremony. It all passed by in a blur, as much as I tried to sear certain moments into my memory. I knew I could not capture it all, but I made every attempt to claim as much as I could and call it my own.

The day itself started out rainy, but turned to snow in the afternoon. As soon as the ceremony was over my family departed for home. The ride took all of them much longer than anticipated, such is their reward for their commitment to attending my special day. I was left to spend the night on campus, which was my original intent, all in the hopes of saying a gradual goodbye. But the snow continued to fall throughout the night, enclosing us the campus in a white, gauzy cocoon. It snowed for more than 24 hours, delaying my departure. Because of this, I was inadvertently given the chance to spend more time with my friends with no agenda, deadlines or specific intent. It became a gift, one of the nicest I've ever received. We sat, talked, ate, laughed and stretched my time here to its very limits. Walking back to my room as the day came to a close, I saw that someone had written in the snowbank--as one might write into the sand-- “You say goodbye and I say hello...” I do not want to say goodbye; not to friends, advisors, nor to my room or anyone, anything here. But I will try to keep it all safe in my memory, this special place and my time out of time. I will cram it all into my memory box. Shut the lid tight to prevent it all from spilling over, though the memories threaten to leak out and drift away from me. It will mix and mingle with the other Significant Events kept there: first date, first kiss, wedding, birth, first steps, and christmas on the beach. I will seek solace and pleasure from these thoughts, when I too am possessed by the desire to remember.
~b

Bible

One of the Vineyard memories that remains crystal clear in my mind is of A and I sitting on the couch. We had already done a scan of the bookshelves in the house, calling out titles that surprised or interested us. “The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis” was a treasure that I had discovered in the upstairs bedroom; it was one I had always been meaning to read but hadn't yet had the chance. I opened it up, skimmed through the stories and pronounced that I would read aloud “The Old Dictionary.” This seemed like the perfect way to spend part of an afternoon, so we positioned ourselves and began to listen. The story didn't disappoint. The narrator describes the old dictionary and the way that it gets treated, which is reverently and with care. The actions are then compared to the way the son is treated, needless to say there are differences. I remember reading that story, giving substance to the words as I pushed them out of my mouth and into the air between us. There weren't many pages, but for that short time I was enraptured.

We have several dictionaries in our house, many still in use. For some reason, perhaps it's my tendency to preserve the past, I can't pass them by. Scanning the tables at a book sale often turns up several discarded dictionaries that eventually find their way into my car like orphan puppies in need of a new home. Fortunately they do not require feeding or walking, but they do take up shelf space--in our house that's in high demand. When someone needs to define a word, I try to stress the importance of a dictionary. Using one is becoming a lost art. It's become common to look up any word on the computer. An answer always comes back in seconds; no need to fumble with pages or squint to read the print. Yet discovery and serendipity are also lost, being surprised or excited by another word while in pursuit of the first is half the fun.

I often wonder if we're the last family still using these books. Could it be that we're becoming an endangered species? Not only do we look words up, we also read aloud. In fact we often can't help ourselves, if we're reading something humorous, particularly eloquent or feeling rather indignant at an author's point of view, we make the others stop what they are doing and recite aloud for everyone to hear. And, believe it or not, we sometimes read aloud at night. (I know it's shocking what we consider to be entertainment!) All three of us, two dogs and the cat climb under the covers on our little full-sized bed and listen to the evening's chapter. Times like these I think back to the years of oral storytelling and other families sitting around the fire as someone read aloud from the bible. I feel a connection to that tradition and try to do our part to pass it on. To us some books are meant to be passed down from generation to generation. I don't know that anyone would say that about an electronic reader, but I'm hoping years from now a small child will inherit my dictionary and feel a tingle as they run a finger along the pages looking to define a word. Not knowing that with that very act they are in a way defining themselves and they way others see them. I know I want to be seen as someone who preserves and honors traditions; treating my sacred books with reverence and grace, yet putting them to good use.
~b



I've been aware of this word looming large on the bloggy horizon. We have no bibles here. I've never read the bible, though parts have been read to me by earnest young women in cardigans who visit on summer afternoons and manage to not look askance at my skintight, black spaghetti strap tank top and partially - sometimes totally - naked children. I don't know where these women come from; their accents are slight but specific and they smile blissfully in the face of hot dusty roads. When I offer lemonade they graciously decline without giving any sense of misgiving, as if one neighbor over had already plied them with beverage and now they were floating. For us, one neighbor over is half a mile away.

So bibles are foreign to me until I consider them as a book you return to for clues on how to live your life. Turns out, I have plenty of those. Carol Shields – have you read Carol Shields? If not, go do so, I'll wait. U.S.-born, lived in Canada most of her life, raised five children while writing a dozen books and becoming a full professor at a university. Her novels are long stretches of quiet insight after which your life is somehow fuller, and her stories are hushed moments of power that make you rethink, reimagine, redo, refill. William Trevor taught me the best of what I know of writing fiction. Jane Austen, well, she's Jane Austen, who makes me want to sit up straighter. The Things They Carried is the closest I've come to being a soldier, except maybe in my role as a parent. A Wrinkle In Time I have read about every year since I was twelve because it reminds me of contradiction. And possibility. And evil. And good. A few months ago T read it for the first time and I could almost hear his mental geography stretching to encompass Meg, Calvin, Charles Wallace, the witches. The pile could tower, the list could go on. All my bibles.
~a

Health

A few years ago a friend of mine had cancer. Friend? I see her maybe once every five years. I went about a dozen years not seeing her at all - college, distance, life, all that etcetera. But when we were ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen - we were close. Sleepovers every weekend, secrets revealed on a daily basis, picnics in graveyards, bike trips to the beach, imaginary adventures in once-decadent gardens overgrown in the woods. Now we might send email greetings on birthdays. But yes, friend. Against difficult odds she beat the cancer in her throat and will likely bear witness to most of the lives of her two young children. But there are lingering concerns; treatment is so often a sequel of disaster. When I think of her now, undergoing surgery twice a year to clear enough scar tissue to continue the privilege of breathing, I remember her once singing with a voice unaffected by the future. Elementary-school-aged, she was too shy to face the crowd in her mother's parlor, so she sang turned to the wall while her younger sister stood beside her and her mother accompanied on the piano. Had cells already mutated by that point and formed the foundation for illness? Maybe. However much broccoli I force my children to eat, however firmly I deny them processed food (some days not too firmly), however often I wager with various forces of the universe, I really have no control over their health, or dreaded lack thereof. Disease is often - always? - random. Recent photos of my friend show her smiling, always smiling, usually with an arm around a child or two. She isn't looking over her shoulder for the next avalanche of doctor's appointments, hospital visits, and co-payment invoices. She's obviously appreciating this new definition of health. But there's a fierceness to her expression. She is far, far from that small girl who fears a crowd of faces listening to her sing. Now she'd simply relish the notes rising from her own throat.
~a



“... for richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health....”

M and I met at a bookstore in Pittsburgh. It was my first day of training. He happened to be there before his shift since the store was air conditioned and his apartment was not. The first words he ever spoke to me were, “ I think you're going to like working here.” And I did. I was a Children's bookseller at that store and I loved it. Eventually my boss opened up a new store. I received a promotion and went with her as the Store Trainer. In that position I began to travel around the country opening up new stores. For the three weeks that it took to open all the boxes, shelve all the books, and train the staff I felt a sense of belonging. It was such a short time, but those bonds were intense. After a few years I was promoted to work at the World Trade Center store, and from there I applied to be the first Children's Web Editor for the company. I flew to Michigan for a series of interviews and while I was there I visited the original store in Ann Arbor. I felt like I was making a pilgrimage. To commemorate the occasion I bought myself a copy of “Little Women.” I read it on the plane ride home and thought of the life that might lay in front of me. I got that job and then one eventually in a store in New Hampshire. M and I had decided we wanted to settle in Vermont. By then it seemed that the company as a whole was moving in a different direction. In 2000, M and I each made a choice to work for a local independent bookstore. Leaving and starting over was difficult. I had made so many friends and I would miss the breakroom conversations as well as feeling that connection to stores all over the country. But the parting was amicable and I think it was the right decision.

As with an ex spouse or lover I've had mixed feelings about the corporation that launched my profession/ passion for Children's books. Others may view it as a big evil chain out to destroy the independent stores, but I still have fond memories and have always wished the people working there well. It's easy to slip into the idea that the split was the best thing for all concerned. Surely, you tell yourself, your “ex” has doing well. It seemed the most logical outcome at the time, each of you have since gone on to bigger and better things. Such is the way of life. Occasionally a snippet of news or gossip reaches your ears and you sometimes wonder what it would have been like if you had stayed together.

This week M and I learned the devastating news that the store where we met is closing, as is every store where M once worked in the several states we once called home. The idea that those stores won't be there thriving--filled with books, people and conversation--is almost unfathomable. As with a dying friend, part of me wants to drop everything, rush to the bedside and offer a hand or handkerchief for support. They may put on a brave face, but the rattling death cough gives away the truth of the situation. Such dire circumstances make you reevaluate your choices. I'm not the type of person who leaves, I believe in sticking around through good times and bad. But I did leave...

Yet I know there is nothing that I can do to change the situation, what's done is done. The threat of absolute finality fills me with a desire to revisit the past. I tell myself that I must move on and keep my memories close. Sadly, there won't be the chance to make more. If ever there was a time that I could relive, it would be the first few months of working in that store in Pittsburgh. I'd bet there are many former booksellers, now scattered all over the country, who'd probably say the very same thing.
~b

Light

Wake up to the sound of small animals jumping around in their cages, insisting to be fed. Feel an absence next to you and realize your husband has gone down to feed the dogs. Blearily make your way downstairs feed the cat and the bunnies who are impatiently waiting. Head back upstairs and discover husband has gone back to sleep. Curl up under the covers and pull out the book about Hemingway's wife you desperately want to finish. Read a chapter, then two. Try to ignore dog whining, then get up and take her out. While outside notice that the sunrise looks eerily familiar to a sunset. Try and calculate how long it's been since you've seen the sun make its way into the sky. Collect the dog, skedaddle into the house and grab the camera in order to get a photo for the blog to represent Light. Put on the correct lens, zip up husband's coat and dismiss the idea of gloves. Once outside, notice that the trees and the sky are beautifully reflected in the car window, quickly take a picture. Make your way carefully across the snow covered street, only to discover that the clouds aren't as pink as they used to be. Glance up and see that further along the road they are still quite beautiful.

Start to make your way up the hill, congratulating yourself on choosing to wear your boots instead of your sons fake, though fleece-lined, crocs. Continue up the hill, hoping no one looks out the window to see the determined, somewhat crazed look in your eye. Perhaps they will mistake you for a hunter, yet you are holding a camera, not a gun. Know that they will not think of you as paparazzi, no one here is worth filming in that way. Instead they may see a crazy lady with her hair going every-which-way, wearing her husband's too-big fleece coat, and too-big pants that don't seem like they would belong to her, but do. Be thankful for too-big pants that are lined in fuzzy material and extend well below ankle-length, leaving no fear of an errant winter draft coming in. Keep walking in the direction of the well-lit sky. Your watch drops off as if to signify that time no longer matters. Pick it up, dust it off and put in husband's coat pocket. Keep walking, notice that the only sound is the sound of the snow crunching under your boots. Catch the sound of someone laughing. Shrug it off when you realize it's only the crows, not a neighbor who can't believe what you will go through to take a photograph. Stop. Put the camera up to your eye, focus and frame the shot. Silently thank your neighbors for repainting their house this fall, dull white would not have provided as much contrast in your picture.

Begin the slow journey home, hoping the shot is what you wanted it to be. Curse yourself for not bringing gloves. Curl your hands inside coat sleeves and walk faster. Be careful not to slip on the snow covered road as you make your way down the hill. Notice when you get home and walk past the car that the image reflected in the window is no longer the same as the picture you took before you set out. Shake your head and ponder at the fleeting light and think of how lucky you are to be up this morning to witness the beauty. Quietly head into the house taking off the coat and boots. Make your way upstairs to sleeping dogs, sleeping husband, and somewhere a sleeping boy. Pick up the book and continue where you left off. Keep smiling though it makes your cold cheeks sting. Come downstairs later to a husband making coffee. Needing your watch, retrieve it from his coat pocket. Your husband couldn't be more surprised if you pulled a quarter from behind his ear. Smile your secret smile, know that your morning adventure wasn't a dream --you've got the photo to prove it.
~b




Mornings are a rush. Drink coffee, walk dogs, make breakfast, pack lunch, feed dogs, feed horses, refill frozen buckets with hot water lugged from bathtub, check for eggs under warm, clucking poultry. And then drink coffee again. Did you remember to pack your homework? Is today library day? Are you sure those gloves are dry? It's karate day, I'll pick you up after school. Out, out now. Now. When two boys and one man exit the house it's like a sigh. The baby and I (yes, I know, not a baby, but still the one staying behind) take stock of the day ahead and settle into our preferred approaches. He asks for a cookie. I insist on oatmeal first. He suggests a morning movie. I start reading a book about pirates, or Amelia Bedelia, or Scooby damn Doo. When that doesn't hold his fleeting attention I break out the train tracks and the kitchen floor turns industrial. Sometimes we sit in the hallway and discover light. Particle? Wave? We have nothing further to contribute to the collective body of knowledge, except this: morning light on the wall is as good as playdough. And when he tries to eat it, there's no cleanup. "What did that taste like?" I ask. "Ummmm... cookies?" he answers. Every morning is a new opportunity to hope.
~a