national treasure

husband. father. grandfather. friend. soldier. hero. 

beloved and honored. 

 farewell and peace to our dear Zora. 

Goodbye and Hello

The rush is through, the trimmings stowed away, the sweets and rich treats (oh so many!) consumed, the thank you notes begun, closets tidied, calendar pages filling, lists jotted, and a sparkling drink awaits the strike of midnight.

And we bid good day to the year 2010 and its triumphs and challenges and tiny moments and remember the night we first met, and welcome all the promises of 2011. Promises that will surely include  monumental trials of patience, stumbling blocks and mistakes but also promises of lightness and love and grace and laughter. We will celebrate memories made and memories yet to come with a little dancing with the little guys, fortune cookies, sparkly drinks, and a resolution or two. On the morrow we'll enjoy breakfast with lovely friends, and then some football. A pleasant end to the season and a sweet beginning to the new year.

sending a wire

There is something romantic and charming and marvelously old fashioned about telegrams.  What fun to learn (via my magazine) of TelegramStop, a service that will deliver a traditional telegram anywhere in the world for under $6.  Just the kind of thing the lucky recipient might tuck into a scrapbook, for nieces or grandmas or a far away special someone.

step ball change down memory lane

dancers in pink

degas

I took ballet lessons and tap dance lessons when I was a little girl. I loved them both. Eventually I was forced to choose between dancing and piano, though I  did well at both, and have sometimes regretted my choice [moderately manipulated by my parents] to keep the piano. I still have tap shoes, ballet shoes and my hot pink tu-tu. I can remember my recital, my first sequined white tu-tu, the tedious chore of letting my mother work my long slippery tresses into an immaculate bun, locked down like Fort Knox. I can still hear my teacher: "point. flex! point. flex!" I remember longing to be Clara in the Nutcracker, but never being quite old enough or tall enough.

One of my teachers, Miss Arlene, also owned the Ballet Les Jeunes studio. The basement housed the locker room: rows of slipper-pink cubes for stowing our shoes and leotards, thick lavender paint on the walls. Tap studio in the front, ballet studio at the rear. Miss Arlene seemed old to me then. A trim figure and a swath of short, bushy, pewter colored hair crowning her head. A black leotard and tights. She was brilliant and abrupt. She meant business in her high heeled mary jane tap shoes. And I loved it. And wished I could have high heeled tap shoes, too.

Next to the studio sat a darling, old, grey shake house that had been converted into a boutique. Filled with Nutcrackers, called the Nussnacker Haus. Miss Arlene owned this, too, and had curated a massive collection of all kinds of Nutcrackers into a cozy little shop. Sometimes my mother would take us into the shop to look--but never touch--after our lessons. So many pretty things.

Miss Arlene retired her dance shoes many years ago and moved away. But she took her Nutcracker obsession with her. Tonightt, Conan O'Brien welcomes Miss Arlene and her Nutcrackers to his show. I think it's totally cool, even if it's probably some kind of gimmick. I can say knew the nutcracker lady when...

saltwater

I wore saltwater sandals every summer when I was a little girl. my nieces wear them now, and I'm sort of wanting a pair for my grown-up self. proximity of actual saltwater irrelevant.

you are my sunbeam

My piglet is a sunbeam. (In our church, children age 3-4 attend the sunbeam class on Sundays) 8 weeks and going strong. He was assigned to give a talk in Primary a few weeks ago and seemed quite happy about it, though I'm not entirely sure he knew what was involved. His assigned topic: Jesus Christ is my Savior and Redeemer. Rather a broad topic for a three year old, but if anyone was capable, it would be my Piglet. John 3:16 seemed like a good place to start, and we worked on the message all week. When his big day arrived, my little guy needed only a few prompts from start to finish and, I've got to say, stood in front of those kids like he owned that podium. It went something like this (italics indicate his words from memory):

Heavenly Father loves us (he held a paper heart for the children to see)
He wants us to live with him someday.
He sent His son Jesus Christ to show us the way.
Jesus taught us to be kind and to obey.
Jesus loves us; He suppered and died for us.
He is our Savior.
If we follow Jesus we can live with Him and Heavenly Father again someday.
I know Jesus love me. I will try to be like him.

I was utterly bursting with pride and love for my sweet, dauntless boy.

Mr. and Mrs. Kringle/Claus/Nicholas

In a nearby neighborhood in the month of December, a kind couple dons their festive finest to greet eager children along the sidewalk. Their home is bedecked with twinkling lights and doo-dads, and they stand out front in the evenings, asking each child if they've been naughty or nice and what might be their Christmas wish. Then the children are sent on their way with a little candy cane.

The Mr. and Mrs. are kind and jolly and not at all phased by the chill in the air. I drove past last weekend with my little ones and couldn't resist. So, we stood in the cold and waited our turn. Piglet mesmerized by the shining wonderland of the front yard, clutching his fleece blankie and snuggling close to me.

It's one of the sweet things about living in a small town such as this, that people such as these can do such a thing.

I snapped a photo, but it was so cold outside my shutter didn't open all the way!  If you'd like to catch them, the last chance will be Christmas Eve from 7-9pm, Corner of Hartert and Holmes.

number 9

Happy Anniversary, Mr. J

9 years...you do the math

1 girl

1 boy

1 dress

1 diamond

1 morning

1 december

1 day

1 for time an all eternity

1 new beginning

it all adds up to

1000s of moments

100s of laughs

100s of tears

9 years

8 vacations

7 semesters

4 moves

2 little boys

1 love of my life

Writing Assignment: Travel Studies

Assignment: ~Where is your ancestral home? Most of us have roots in several places. Pick one city or country you'd like to visit,find it on a map, and explore some travel websites, just for practice. A few of my favorites are: multi-map, Rick Steves,Cheap Flights, Budget Travel.

Such a delicious topic for today's writing assignment from Travelin Oma's School Days. Travel. I love to travel. I really really love to travel. I've travelled more than some, but not as much as I'd like, not as much as I dream. There are places I want to visit and revisit with such longing I feel a little pang in my heart when I think of them. I've had just a taste which has only fueled my appetite further, rather than quench it. I have repeated bouts of incurable wanderlust.

My ancestral home is not singular--I'm "Heinz 57" as my mother calls it. But, my paternal grandmother was born in the US to first generation Italian immigrants; her siblings were born in Italy in a little tiny town near Turin, called Villanova. My family took a trip when I finished college, to visit distant relations who still reside there. It is indeed tiny. I photographed my mother as she stood at one end of town and I stood at the other. It's hardly map-able, if that's a word. The village cemetery bears the names of my ancestors over and over. There is a beautiful park with a pond where our relatives hosted us for a magnificently catered meal. One of several magnificent meals on the same day. The food just kept coming. Later we were guests in the home of my grandmother's cousin Olga--something of a matriarch in the community. I am quite certain that nothing happened in that little town without her knowledge or even her approval. We feasted some more, we sampled cheeses from their wine cellar--enormous wheels of pungent cheese. Some excellent, some so strong my eyes stung! Hospitality was the name of their game and well played it was. An evening I hope I never forget.

We spent a few days in Torino. Turin. Not one of Italy's romantic show-case cities but rich with culture and history just the same. Once occupied by Napoleon. Once the capitol of Italy. Site of famed battles of ages and ages past. Home to Alfa Romeo and Fiat and also the shroud of turin. Which I did not see. Birthplace of snacking chocolate (bars, pieces) as we have come to know it. Aha! My love affair with good chocolate must be genetic. Also touted as the origin of cafe lifestyle with charming little eateries and their tiny tables and chairs, sparkling beverages, handmade hazelnut chocolates, simple sandwiches. Places for greeting and meeting and sipping. And then, then there was the gelato. Everywhere I turned, wonderful gelato. I confess I enjoyed it every day of my trip, sometimes more than once a day. Not a fashion mecca like other Italian cities, but a wonderful place for history, culture, and gastronomic delights.

If I could go back today (there's that pang in my heart!), I'd spend more time at Olga's home, learning more about my ancestry and their day to day lives in a town where everyone is related. She would teach me to cook meatballs and gnocchi. I'd spend more time on the piazzas, visit the Cinema Museum. I'd travel to the top of that distant hill to visit the mysterious cathedral, and I'd remember the mysterious story that surrounds it. Emiglio (goodness his teeth were awful), pointed it out one evening as it's spires jutted against the evening sky. He told a story that fascinated me at the time but whose details I've ruefully forgotten. I'll go back to that gorgeous lake and the water-front cafe and sip ultimate lemonade in a fabulous narrow cylinder of a glass. I'd go back tomorrow. For any reason. To do anything, to do everything. To just be there.

Writing Assignment: Be Real

i've "enrolled" in a blog-based writing seminar from Travlin Oma. it's inspiring and, today, challenging.

School of Thought: Be Real

Assignment: Search through the drawer in your heart. Are there memories that shaped your self image? Write about a time when your feelings were hurt. Why do you think you still remember the incident? How does that help you understand yourself better?

This could get ugly. Hurt feelings. High School. The best of times, the worst of times and everything in between. Drama. Folly. I was a conscientious student, mediocre in most regards, had friends in many circles. My best friend, though, was Marie*. We'd known each other since grade school. We had the same classes, shared a locker, went out on weekends together, crushed on boys together. I'd have done anything for her and valued our friendship above all others. I was loyal, if not gorgeous and clever and hip.

The summer before my senior year, I met a boy. He attended another school. He was new. And very cute. We went on a few dates and seemed to like eachother. On the verge of being smitten, I gushed about him to Marie. Probably something like "Todd is soooo cute! He's really nice! He's funny! We both like Erasure!" Ahh, the stuff of meaningful relationships.

It was the eve of the homecoming football game. I hadn't been asked to our dance. Marie was nominated for homecoming queen. I was happy for her--delivered celebratory notes to her in class, swooned over her pepto-bismol pink, lace covered satin dress even though I didn't like it. (It was awful, actually). I knew it would never have been me on the ballot; I hoped she would enjoy the moment. A friend called--the one who introduced me to Todd. She'd just seen him that afternoon and he told her he was going to ask me to the homecoming dance at his own high school. Really? I might just sprout wings and fly! I'd never been asked before. Never had the dress or the rhinestones or the wrist shrubbery. Apparently his plan was to join me at the football game and ask me afterward. Oh the giddiness!

He arrived at the game with his friends and sat behind me. Halftime. Announcement of the homecoming queen...Marie! As i stood to cheer for her, I heard the conversation between the boys. I froze. Did my best to pretend I hadn't heard. There were high fives and congratulations to him for taking our homecoming queen to his own homecoming dance. I choked out a goodbye and hurried out of the stands, eyes stinging. He would ask her. She would say yes. I knew before it even happened. Deflated, I left the game with my dad, crying all the way home, knowing that he felt utterly useless. I do remember his words: "You are better of with out her as a friend, she never seemed like a good friend to you in my opinion." He was trying to tell me that I had value. That I mattered, even if someone else didn't think I was cute or cool or homecoming-worthy. I know that now, though at the time the ordeal sealed the fate of doom over my self esteem.

I ran to my room for a good cry. My mother offered me ice cream. Ice cream? Honestly? I was hurt. Betrayed. Humiliated. Crushed. And Marie, well, she offered no excuse, no apology, no remorse. She didn't speak to me the remainder of the year. No graduation party together. No packing up for college together. No more sharing a dorm. No more BFF. No more Todd, either, that was for sure. Who needs fickle fellows?

Ultimately, I moved on, built a bridge, got over it. I was better off. I learned what real friends, true friends, are about and filled my life with them. I didn't need to let cancerous friendships weaken me. I didn't want to peak in high school, or let it be the culminating experience of my life story. I wouldn't let a teensy sliver of broken heartedness break me for good. I didn't have to be unkind in return. I could simply square my shoulders, take the high road, and be the good friend. I hope I've succeeded.

old treasures

My brother came for a visit recently, and brought with him a treasure chest of loot for my little boys. The chest itself is the toy box of his childhood--wooden, worn, emblazoned with cowboys. It's wonderful, though in need of a bit of TLC.

The treasures inside? Original series matchbox cars from the 60's. Dozens. Die cast, made in England, not like the toy cars available now. Jeeps, dump trucks, a combine, a milk truck. Also a very cool jumbo-size toy John Deere tractor. A pint-sized football helmet, circa the 1960s Rams. And baseball gloves with the [new favorite] uncle's name printed in sharpie many many years ago. Treasures indeed. All things our little boy loves: wheels, football, soccer, cowboys.

Piglet has hardly played with anything else since they arrived, giving no heed to the scratches and signs of age, periodically looking up from play to question what type of vehicle this is or what that truck is used for. He is enthralled. And I love strolling down memory lane, imagining my much-older brother playing in much the same way.

I'm so happy these nearly-vintage toys are being loved again. Thanks big bro for sharing.

high points

Last week some girls got together for a little joy ride. In a helicopter. Courtesy of a generous grandpa who was also our pilot, steady and sure. Thrilling, to say the least. Smooth and easy, right over the baseball game, right over my little house where Mr. J and Piglet waved from the front steps. So kind of Stina and Aricka to arrange it, so grand of Doyle to humor us with his shiny blue whirlybird.

Here we are climbing in--a little nervous (will I orphan my babies? will the relief society have to see the piles of dirty laundry I left at home?) but completely excited. Elizabeth and Aricka are on the right, coaching everyone on how to get in, how to get out, and reminding us emphatically to DUCK! DUCK! Why? The propellers bend downward and failure to duck could be disastrous. Now you know, should you ever get to travel Magnum PI style. It's a blast!

There I am in the back, headphones and all, a giddy little dork not knowing what to expect. Maneuvers on a dime, feels a little like gliding, and it was pretty cool to listen to the radio communication between our pilot and the airport--we had to stop for fuel. Even that was interesting. Big fat thanks again to my neighbors and their father-in-law. I loved every minute.

make your bed!

Shortly after Mr. J and I tied the knot, Mr. J claimed he didn't know how to make the bed.

?

!

It was a "what have I done?" moment in my marriage. I got over it, but still, didn't everyone learn to make their bed by say, age 6?

So he didn't know how to make the bed. Tucking in the sheet corners was a foreign concept altogether. (As was setting the table, I learned later). Doesn't everyone do hospital corners?

There is the sneaking suspicion he only claimed these shortcomings as a way to avoid responsibility. Hmmmm. But, he does mow the lawn, take out the trash, and build shelves. And he did eventually learn how to make the bed. I guess I'll keep him.

icons. gone.

My sister and I used to argue about which one of us got to be which angel when we pretended to be Charlie's Angels. Why did we both want to be the blond? I was little but somehow knew that girl, with that hair, was everybody's dream girl.

Sure, the guy had some serious issues, but thankfully my ipod doesn't care. Just a little girl still when Thriller was all the rage but I knew it was cool because my big brother was listening to it. I thought I was hot stuff because I knew the lyrics to Beat It and could kinda sorta do the moonwalk. I'll remember the cool.

sometimes they bloom

When my maternal grandmother passed away a few years ago, my mother sent me some bulbs from Grandma's yard. She loved pretty things, and despite her tiny home and yard, always showcased a brilliant row of irises under her front window. 

I planted those bulbs, but they didn't blossom until 3 summers ago, and then only one. Purple.

When we moved to Idaho, I brought the bulbs with me and planted them again. Last year: nothing. This year: a bright sunny yellow iris. Three blooms on one stem.

So, now I know that I have one purple bulb and one yellow bulb. Why they don't get their act together is a mystery to me, but I love having the bulbs nonetheless. A sweet remembrance of my sweet grandma.

My boys in the frozen wilderness

Last Friday afternoon, I packed and bundled my boys for an overnight trip in the wilderness, 2 hours from civilization. 4 Daddies, 4 toddlers (boys ages 2.5 to 5), 4 snowmobiles (it's just what people do around here), and a one room rancher's cabin with a concrete floor, wood burning stove, no electricity or running water. Sounds like fun?

(my boys, all ready to go--that's M's new camera face)

(the instigator)

The idea: male bonding and wintertime fun while Mommy got 24 hours all to herself. A nice theory. And a strange feeling, I must admit. I didn't sleep, wondering all night if they were safe and warm and sleeping.

The reality for them: Our boy didn't fall, nay, collapse into sleep until 1:30AM, after everyone else had been slumbering for hours. He awoke at 3:30 and screamed like a banshee until 5AM. "I wanna go home! Go home! Want Mommy! Want Mommy!" Note: our boy doesn't wimper. He wails. To wake the dead. Another collapse into sleep at 5 until 7:30. Also note: had I been present, he'd have wanted nothing to do with me.

(that haze in the photos? smoke, from the fire, they'll all probably get cancer!)

The reality for me: Friday night was spent prepping for Saturday's baby shower, which occupied all of Saturday morning (I was happy to do it uninterrupted, mind you). Afterward I decided to treat myself to lunch and a chick flick. Precisely at that moment my filthy boys arrived home, earlier than planned. And with them, their dozens of layers of clothing and gear permeated with the aroma of campfire. Which meant instant laundry for me, and immediate bathing for them.

So much for 24 hours of me-time. But, they did manage to have a blast. Especially M who is still talking about it a week later, and that makes me happy.

Blessings & Highlights 2008

1. a little boy that is beautiful, happy, strong, bright, curious and has a keen sense of humor

2. a finished basement--100%. No casualties. Or divorce lawyers. 

3. a healthy pregnancy

4. the great outdoors, like here, here and here

5. special visits from far-away friends and family

6. graduate school straight As for my B

7. The Great Diaper Cream Debacle

8. challenges professionally, spiritually, academically

9. a gorgeous, long Autumn

10. good friends, old and new, like these

11. each other

12. The Infamous Poop Escapades

13. homemade applesauce for my boys (and jam and peaches...)

14. big, ugly, warm, cozy & ridiculously practical winter boots 

15. rather minimal battles with bottles, pacifiers, and big boy beds

16. Our first parental experience with Public Projectile Puke

17. 4 actual dates with my B. Yep, 4 actual nights on the town without child.

18. Where the Wild Things Are, Peter Pan, A is for America,  and other stories, over and over and over again.

19. Landscaping

20. A blessed little life in a pleasant little town

We celebrated

wild horses couldn't tear him away from the train set, not even to open presents!

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there...

A peek at Christmas at our house:

simple gifts, warm hearts

I always look forward to attending our church service just before Christmas: everyone dressed in their holiday best, warm greetings, beautiful songs, special musical numbers, and all emphasis on the birth of our Savior. Our service today included violins and flutes along with the choir, organ, piano, and Primary children. And M was nearly perfectly behaved the entire meeting. Hallelujah.

The evening brought visits from many friends. All bearing treats of some kind, all welcome. I welcomed the snowy shoes puddling inside my front door, the coats piled on chairs, the laughter and banter, the over-stimulated antics of my little one who loves company. We are learning, little by little, of the many reasons we moved here. Reasons of which we were not aware when we moved in 2007. Tonight, some of those reasons gathered in our home as people, as blessings, as friendships, as all things that make life rich. Though it's chilly and snowy, our hearts are warm because of the many wonderful souls we've come to know this last year. Souls who reach out, who give selflessly, who bring laughter, talents, conversation and wisdom and homemade wheat bread or coconut breakfast syrup or designer sugar cookies. Or who arrive unannounced on 4-wheelers to plow our driveway, though we are capable on our own. Souls who love my child and make him feel safe and welcome and super cool. Who offer to tend him when mommy has to visit the doctor or visit-teach. Souls who drop by with special gifts and sincerely beautiful notes full of grand compliments (Joy: ditto you). Souls who "help" B install an entire bathroom--and by "help" I mean they did it mostly themselves while B watched. Or those who allow us opportunities to share and to give. Tonight, as these dear ones came and went or came and lingered, I felt Christmas in a way I haven't in a very long time.

When the house was once again quiet, B expressed how much he loved having a house full of friends, how good it felt to open the door to so many. I concurred with misty eyes. Our gift--though we are rather undeserving--from St. Nick this year: the gift of wonderful friendships near and far. A simple yet immeasurable gift for our simple little family in our simple little home, filling our simple little hearts as all the sweets have filled our not-so-little tummies. And making me feel like a lame friend for only giving the gift of simple homemade fudge (made with love) to all our dear ones.

PS: and we are grateful to those who pushed my SUV, in 4WD, out of a snowdrift in the middle of the road, 1 block from my house, even if they were laughing at me the whole time.