A Strange Sort of Season

A couple of Saturdays ago, Jeff and I drove out to the next town to watch Daniel play basketball.

The boy plays year-round sports.

If you were in a room with him for very long, you would understand.

As we drove, I was snapping photos.

What are you taking pictures of? said Jeff.

Well. This.

It was well into December and the trees were supposed to look like this.

So we have this kind of a thing going on.

Bare, wintry trees.

Northwest evergreens.

And blazing fall colours.

Very weird.

I'm sure everyone who knows me is weary of my marveling about the strange weather conditions that have caused the trees to be confused. 

So I oohed and aahed and snapped away until we arrived at the school.

I tried and tried to get a good shot of the boys in action, but the gym was too well-lit for the flash to activate and everything came out blurry. Any suggestions will be appreciated.

So here is Daniel from the back....

...and here he is from the front.

And that is as good as it gets.

It was quite fun watching him in action; he was very intent on the game and appears to enjoy himself immensely. It was even more fun to see how involved Bethany gets in the game. 

I have a confession to make.

I was a lousy sports mom. I avoided watching my kids' games at all costs. I didn't enjoy the stress or the heat or the cold or anything about the experience. I was more of a "band concert" mom and a "dance recital" mom. 

So it's a bit strange to see Bethany being so enthusiastic about her children's games. 

But I like it.

I'm glad she didn't inherit my particular dysfunction.

We went back to their house afterwards and Jeff sat on the couch, working on a paper for school.

Natalie...did whatever Natalie does on a laptop.

It occurred to me that three of my four kids now have pianos in their living rooms.

That makes me happy.

Kenzie is eleven.

It's official. 

How did that happen?

Look at that pointy little chin! 

I believe that is what we call a heart-shaped face.

Somehow, I ended up making dinner and the cake.

Something to do with Bethany being almost nine months pregnant.

Homemade pizza, which was devoured by one and all.

Breadsticks for Daniel, who doesn't like pizza.

Gluten-free crust and no cheese for Josh.

I said to Bethany, We should have pizza for Thanksgiving.

She concurred.

The cake didn't look pretty, but it was delish.

Vanilla buttermilk cake with whipped-cream-and-chocolate-shavings for the filling and chocolate cream cheese frosting.

And do you like how the candles depict "11"?

One of my pet peeves is a cake covered with candles. 

Did you know?

Candle ashes in the frosting do not taste yummy.

Josh truly relished his vegan cookies and ice cream.

Really.

He did.

Gathering bits of happiness everywhere she goes

Gather the crumbs of happiness and they will make you a loaf of contentment.

The tree is up and decorated.

Jeff got tired of waiting and pulled out the Christmas boxes on Sunday evening.

Baby, it was cold outside, but we had a fire roaring in the wood stove and Johnny Mathis crooning Christmas songs on the stereo.

The tree is full of critters again.

And these lovelies.

Moravian stars.

I examined the tree closely and concluded that there could be more stars.

So some friends came over tonight. We ate two kinds of soup and homemade bread and shortbread. Then we were instructed again in the art of making them.

We folded and we cursed.

I tossed the first two attempts.

Third time's the charm, alright.

This little beauty is all of three centimetres across.

Dipped in hot wax and sprinkled with oodles of glitter, it is ready to be hung on the tree.

If you want to torture yourself, here are instructions.

They are free.

All it will cost you is some hair from your head and your placid disposition.

Better still, cozy up to someone who already knows how to make them, like I did.

Thank you Dorothy.

And thanks, Lori, for being the provider of materials. Always.

These little glittery stars make me happy.

I have discovered wall vinyl.

Well, not actually discovered.

It's been around for a while, but I am newly recruited.

My music room makes me happy.

My new vinyl quote makes me happy-to-the-power-of-three.

Now, I just need to find some more unused wall space.

Natalie came over a couple of weekends ago. She hasn't slept over as often as the older kids and was feeling neglected. We played Go Fish and read books and put together a new puzzle. 

I french-braided her hair after her evening bath and in the morning she looked like a princess. 

There is a poem, which I didn't know was by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow until I just looked it up. I used to tell people that it described Annie when she was little. It is also applicable to Miss Natalie.

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very good indeed
But when she was bad, she was horrid.

I actually used to misquote it horribly, but we'll blame that on my Mum, who taught it to me.
I think I shall have to use pink lettering more often.
It makes me happy.

Am I getting better or just used to the pain?

Don't worry, this has a good ending!

I remember, about twenty years ago, noticing that my Mum spent a lot of time rubbing her hands together, massaging them, in a way. I asked her why she was doing it and she answered that her arthritis was playing up. It got to me, way down in the pit of my stomach, every time I thought of Mum being in constant pain. It made me mad that I couldn't do anything about it and sad that she had to deal with it.

Here I am, decades later, and pain is my constant companion.

I wrote about it here, in one of my first posts. My leg bothers me less than it used to, but other pains have joined the queue for attention.

Lately, my left little finger has a knuckle that is swollen with arthritis and doesn't want to bend.

Hip pain comes and goes, depending on how hard I've been pushing my workouts.

But the worst is my right wrist, the site of an old broken bone, that throbs from overuse most of the time. I wear a small brace that looks ugly but helps me get through the days when I have to do lots of driving and guitar playing. I am resigned to babying it for the rest of my life and try not to complain about it too much.

Then, last week, Jeff hurt his back at work. While I was at Costco, I picked up some Thermacare wraps and a box of Salonpas patches. The combination of the two worked miracles with his pain. 

And then it came to me! 

I stuck a patch to the back of my wrist one morning.

It tingled a bit and smelled pleasantly of eucalyptus.

And within minutes the pain was gone.

I thought to myself, Self, you need to tell your friends about this.

So here I am.

A box of 120 patches cost around $10, maybe less, from Costco. 

The patches contain menthol, a natural mint analgesic that provides a cooling sensation, methyl salicylate, another plant-based analgesic, and camphor, which is found in the wood of a large evergreen tree. While all of these substances are natural, they should not be overused. 

Jeff used the patches for several days in a row and started to develop some contact dermatitis in the area, which is a common side effect. 

But me, I'm in heaven. I don't need to use them all the time, but when I need some sweet relief, I go for my little dime patch and breathe more easily.

And you. 

You can thank me later. 

And Salonpas, you should send me some free patches.

Ode to Salonpas, nod to Carly Simon.

'Cause I haven't got time for the pain,

I haven't got room for the pain,

I haven't the need for the pain,

Not since I've know you.

Autumn is a second spring...

...where every leaf is a flower. Albert Camus.

Today is December 2nd. 

Have you ever seen leaves still on the trees in December?

Jeff's bird feeders are sprouting whiskers.

An upside-down beard of nyjer thistle.

Methinks he needs to spend some time catering to his feathered friends.

The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow,

And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?

He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm,

and hide his head under his wing, poor thing.

That is, seriously, one of the most dismal pieces of nursery rhyme ever.
As a child, I always wanted to cry for the poor robin.
And I still wonder what birds do when it's cold and windy and stormy outside.
Does anyone know?

The Gardener’s Daughter

As many of you know, I am off to Haiti again in six weeks with my dear friend Dolly. The clinic has a new director and she blogs frequently. Because I know not many of you click through to her blog, and because she is a master storyteller and a woman of immense love and wisdom, I want you to read her latest post. 

If you feel inclined to help, you can donate to MamaBaby Haiti here. If you want that donation to help Dolly and me pay baggage fees on all the bags of supplies we are taking, let me know and I'll tell you what to do. And remember, many small things add up to big things.

So here it is.

The Gardener’s Daughter has given birth. She has labored for many days and we have had several sleepless nights. But now the baby is at last born and they are resting in the soft misty light of an afternoon rain.

The cook says she will make a special squash soup tomorrow. The farmer has brought us a beautiful striped squash that has sat on the counter for many days now. It is the custom to eat this soup on Independence Day but that is not until January 1^st and the squash will not keep. It seems a good day for a festive pumpkin soup.

I first met the Gardener, as everyone has come to know her, on a busy clinic day. I noticed a tall, thin mother with her pregnant daughter standing there trying to catch my eye. When the hall way, in time, became quiet and nearly everyone had left, the mother approached me.

There are many stories in Haiti and many people who need an extra hand. It is easy to become resistant to individual stories and need; to put up a wall that says I can not bear to hear anymore. Perhaps I was too tired to not listen or perhaps there was something about the strength and dignity in her face that caused me to stop and gather one more story into my heart.

The two of them and the one soon to be born, I was told, had no where to sleep that night and for the days to come. The daughter was 18 and they had not eaten all day and the day before. The daughter was eight months pregnant.

I am not aware of any women’s shelters or places where meals are served or clothes closets or food banks; all the things in my community that we maintain to offer a minimal standard of humanity and survival.

I was quiet for some time, waiting for some thought and then I looked out on the gardens that were in such need of care and then I suggested a plan.

She should go out and see what she could find in ways of housing and I would help her if she would help me with the much neglected gardens. If she would be my partner in reviving the gardens each morning for a few hours, I would pay the rent and she and her daughter could eat breakfast with us each morning.

She returned that evening after finding a small one room house with a dirt floor. It cost $37 for the whole year. “The whole year?” I asked in disbelief. “The whole year.” They had nothing to put in the little house so I gave them a bucket to carry water and a sheet to lay on the ground. It was so little to offer.

At 6:00 the next morning and every morning after, the two of them arrived at the birth center ready to weed, water, plant and clean the gardens. Cheerfully, they made their way through the yard; planting flowers and vegetables and herbs along all the borders and in the shade houses. They rested for a breakfast on the porch and then when the sun got hot, they walked down the road to their little house. It was their only meal of the day.

In time, I took my share of meat or eggs that I did not eat, and gave it to them. The daughter had lost 8 pounds and she was painfully thin. I poured vitamins and water into her as she leaned on a shovel or hoe. I sent her to birth classes over and over again just so she could sit and rest. The Gardener, like many women in Haiti has perfect posture, long strong arms and a beautiful piece of cloth tied around her head. She smiles easily and was happy to meet everyone here and make new friends. In time everyone came to call her, The Gardener and her daughter became “The Gardener’s Daughter.”

There were six other children, living with relatives. When the daughter became pregnant they could no longer live where they lived and everyone had to move out.

It was not until the second day of labor that I felt I had to ask about the baby’s father and then learned of the abuse of her daughter by the landlord, that drove the gardener from her home even if it meant having no where to live. I learned that the oldest son had killed himself and that shortly after the father had left them all. They had moved in with an uncle whose elderly friend had, through force, caused the gardener’s daughter to be pregnant.

Somewhere in the midst of this long labor, we talked of these things and how they happen the world over. We acknowledged their many sorrows and loses and how it would be understandable not to want to bring a baby into such a world. We also talked of how much hope and joy a baby can bring.

I thought of the Diary of Lewis and Clark and how they describe Sacajawea’s birth as particularly violent. I thought perhaps it was the same for The Gardner’s Daughter and that when we give birth after a great violence has been done to us, it takes a special form of courage to open up to the great love that mothering asks of us. I thought of Pomp, Sacajawea’s son and how much she loved him. I told myself that other women have survived unwilling conceptions and have gone on to love the children and to heal themselves.

After we talked to the Gardener and her daughter about all they had worked to overcome there was a change. Our sweet laboring mama, held us close and in time and with much work, opened up and pushed out a baby girl whose eyes found and held her mothers; a little girl with soft, black curls and a mouth that smiled even as she slept.

Perhaps I have a soft place in my heart, for young pregnant girls, barefoot in the garden or for strong determined women who hold their families together and their daughter in their arms no matter the hardships. I watched them; grandmother, daughter, grand daughter all nested one within the other.

Later they asked me to name this baby and I named her Maddie Mae because I always thought it was a name that had a cheerful way of rolling into the world and because it reminded me of the names they love and most of all because I know a Maddie Mae who is strong and wise and kind and I thought that might be a good name for the baby of the Gardener’s daughter.

And so as in all birth stories, as my tale ends it also is just beginning.

Unfinished Masterpieces

Like Schubert and his famous symphony, we all have things that are unfinished.

Take, for instance, our wonderful clay creations from October. I was told to give them a week for firing and then another week if we wanted them glazed. So, two weeks later, Bethany and I dutifully carted five children all the way back to the art studio to paint their pieces.

But first, cupcakes from the local cupcake shop.

They even have vegan cupcakes for Josh.

Yes, they were on coupons.

How did you guess?

I forgot to take photos until all had devoured them except Thomy, who is the slowest eater in the world.

Even slower than his father.

Everyone got one to eat and one for later.

The funny-looking one in the corner is Natalie's unfinished cake.

We drove all the way to the studio and the kids, all excited, ran to the shelves where the fired pieces are kept and......nothing.

Well, one of mine was fired, and Kenzie's snake, but nothing else.

Oh, it takes at least two weeks for them to be fired, I was informed.

Grrrr.

I was irritated, but there was nothing to be done.

Misinformation seems to be commonplace these days.

I had one coupon left (remember Josh's reluctance to get involved?) so Natalie worked on some ceramics pieces, with a little help from Mom. 

I took the other kids outside to play in the parking lots.

First, we ate the remaining cupcakes.

Thomy let me eat his.

Then we played hide-and-seek.

Here's Thomy, counting very quickly to twenty.

Kenzie, dashing around one of the parked vans.

That didn't last long, so I introduced them to "What's the time, Mr. Wolf?", only to be told that it is Mr. Fox, not Mr. Wolf.

This vehicle had a huge vacuum hose attached to the back and the worker was manually shifting the hose to suck up the leaves.

That was a long line of piled leaves.

See, kids, I said, seizing a Nana teaching moment, that's why you need a good education. You don't want to spend you lives being the vacuum guy. Can you imagine doing that all day?

That looks like fun, said Daniel, who could not be persuaded that aspiring to be vacuum guy was not a desirable thing.

The boys stare longingly at the vacuum vehicle.

We played Hot Lava on the way back to the studio to check on Natalie and Mom.

They were done.

Can I do one of those pictures, Nana, asked Josh.

Um. No!

Too little, too late, the scurvy scoundrel.

Daniel was mortally disappointed when Bethany announced she was too tired for a stop at Costco, so I suggested we stop at this man-made lake on the way home.

We took our kids there once, about twenty years ago, when it was still wild and free.

Now, it is landscaped and surrounded by restaurants and shops.

All the signs say Do Not Feed the Ducks and proceed to give you a very logical and environmental reason why not.

Photo of said ducks, courtesy of Daniel.

One last kick of the leaves before we left for home.

It's beginning to look a lot like...

...Christmas?

No. 

Thanksgiving. 

This is Jeff's idea of appropriate Thanksgiving table decor.

In the spirit of gratitude, I said Thank you, dear.


Our little gathering of six adults and six children was par for the course this year.
Chris smoked the turkey in his Traeger grill. It was delicious.

Bethany made craft packets for the kids. Mostly, they were too busy running around being rumbunctious to complete them, but Natalie and Josh enjoyed theirs.

Bethany is a hair away from being in her ninth month of pregnancy. 

Her fifth child.

She has no room in her stomach for food and no room in her lungs for air and can't bend down to tie her shoelaces, but she soldiers on.

I can't even remember how that felt, although I did it four times.

Funny how memory plays tricks on us.

Jon and his family were late.

As always.

Jon works the night shift and Thanksgiving is always difficult. He has to wake up and get ready for work, eat with us, then leave for work right after he eats.

We started without them because all the food was ready, but the Mitchell kids flocked to the kitchen when they arrived, knowing that Jenny was bringing her famous Jello.

Here is Jon, looking....sardonic?

I have scaled down my festive cooking since we mostly only have the offspring to holiday dinners any more.
I made mashed potatoes, corn, peas, gravy, rolls, and four kinds of pie.
The fact of the matter is, none of the four adult guests are big eaters and the six grandchildren hardly eat real food. And none of them like leftovers.
But they do love my rolls.
I think Bethany felt sorry for me when she eyeballed the amount of food left.
Don't worry Mom, she said, next year Sam and Charlie will be here and then there won't be so many leftovers.

When Jeff and I were alone again, I sighed and said to him Maybe I should just make rolls.


Let me know if you want to come over on Christmas Eve and make me happy by eating my feast.
Second thoughts, how about some of that turkey?