I'll return.... eventually

It's been an odd couple of weeks. Odd schedules, odd events, seeing people and participating in activities that aren't the norm. Much of it has been wonderful, although there were a few frustrations along the way.

For a person who likes her schedule, her familiarity, her routine, it has made me a bit out of sorts. (And dealing with a week-long headache that couldn't be calmed certainly didn't help the situation.)

Now we're faced with a "normal" summer schedule -- not exactly a "routine" -- but we're approaching the upcoming days that should feel a little less harried, and a little more laid-back and "summer-ish."

My camera is bursting with photos of the last few weeks events... And I really will begin blogging about them soon. (I also owe AnnaMarie a response to her tag.)

But in my free time the last few nights .. instead of sitting at the computer, and logging through hundreds of images, I relaxed in a hot bubble bath with a new book.

And it has been worth every moment. Y'all will have to wait for more updates. They'll come eventually....

My letter to Hillary Clinton

"Hillary,
I want to thank you for all you have done in this campaign. I will be honest and say that I have been an Obama supporter from the start. But that was never a vote against you. I am touched by so much that you have given to this country and to history. I am grateful for the perspective that you have brought to this race. And I am gracious of your kind words in support of Barack in your united goal to beat McCain and bring real change to this country. (God knows we need it after the past 7 and a half years.)

I am grateful for the perspective that you have shown my 4 year old daughter. (Once, after watching one of your speeches, trying to reaffirm her that she could do anything a man can do, her response was this: "I want to be a girl astronaut, and a girl Democrat!") And I am excited that my 9 year old son realizes that this election is not about gender or race or party. It is about doing what is right for the country, when the country needs it so much. I have explained to him that my grandmothers were not born with the right to vote. That my parents began voting during the days of segregation. And that now I, for the first time in my life, have been given options at the voting booth, that did not include only white haired, white men.

I told him that someday, when he is a grandfather, he will say to his grandchildren "when I was your age, we got to vote for a black man and a white woman." His children will say "What, grandpa? You mean we haven't always have women in the White House? Or African Americans in the White House? Or Hispanics in the White House? Or Asians in the White House? or...." Or better yet, that won't even be part of the discussion. They will think it crazy that at one point in time, women couldn't vote. That a woman president was a crazy idea. That a black man had to eat at a separate restaurant than a white man. This will someday be so foreign to them, that they will almost think that he is telling a tall tale.

But someday, when my now 9-year-old son, is a grandfather -- he will tell them the stories of watching election returns until midnight, waiting to see which of these candidates would finally make it to the White House. YOU are a part of that. YOU have blazed trails that my great-grandchildren will someday take for granted, unable to even understand WHY we all thought this election year was so amazing. You have been a huge part of changing this country for the better. And for that, I say thank you. Thank you for your courage and dedication. Thank you for your exuberance. Thank you for your excitement. And thank you for making sure that a Democrat will be sitting in the Oval Office in a few short months. "

I know we've all had some passionate feelings about the primaries over the past few months, but if you feel so compelled, consider contacting Hillary, and telling her thanks for starting a foundation that will someday be realized. Contact Hillary
And remember, you can always find out how to help get Barack elected here.

They DO love each other

When it seems like bickering is all I have heard from these two in the past few hours, days, week... all I have to do is download a few pictures from that same time period, and realize that they really do love each other.
"Owen is my best friend," Lauryn said this morning, when she was picking out a skirt that said best friends on it (don't ask me where the logo came from -- its a second hand purchase.)

The day before, when Owen woke from his slumber, the first thing he did was say "Is Lauryn up yet? I want to play a new game with her I thought up."

And even the trip to the park that felt like it would drain all my energy... evidence of peaceful, gracious sharing -- even if it is just a cup of juice.

They really are great friends -- and are always willing to play with each other, share stories together, express excitement over the other, make a sacrifice for each other. I hope this friendship will continue to blossom for at least another 80 years.

Memories of a home

During our 44 hours of family time together, we got a real treat.
We went to the home where my father grew up. The home was bought by my grandparents, in the early 1930s, almost finished. They were the only ones to ever live in the home until their deaths more than a decade ago. My grandfather had a small dark room in the basement, and a little shop, where he would do the many repairs, needed over the 5+ decades they would live there together.
My parents now own the house, as a rental, and we were all able to be together, in a lapse between renters, as they do some maintenance.
I hadn't been inside since my grandmother's death. It still smelled like her. A sweet smell that I always looked forward to, a smell that lingered in my suitcase after a summer trip. A smell that felt full, well-fed, comfortable.
The sights were familiar and comforting.
The living room light fixture:

The bathroom tile and wallpaper:

The green carpet in the room that housed my grandmother's favorite painting and her favorite chair, where she would read a book a day up until the day she died. (My aunt would go to the library and literally bring a large basket and empty half a shelf into it -- a couple weeks later, she would do it again. My grandmother read everything -- even books that I suggested as a child.)

The house has small bedrooms, from another era, filled with quaint built-ins and unique light fixtures.

This tile, in the kitchen that is barely larger than a big soaker tub in the bathrooms of today's massive cookie-cutter homes, looks as pristine as it ever did.

But downstairs were where the memories, and the tears, really came out.
The box that caught all of the laundry from the shoot up above -- so many days were spent dropping toys, crayons, clothes down that laundry shoot... only to hustle downstairs to pick them up, sprinting up the stairs to do it all again. Right beside it is the gas burner that my mother said used to be used for all grandma's canning. It looks just a little bit ancient.

And then, the walls. My grandmother was a painter. Nearly every wall of the concrete basement is covered with her art. I don't know how old she was when she made the paintings -- if she was a young newly wed with a new home, or an older mother, caring for 3 children and an aging parent. But they were always there in my era. And they still look as beautiful as I remember.



Outside, another family memory.
This tree is as old as my father. His older brother had picked up an acorn, on his way home from school one day, when my grandmother was pregnant with my father (or maybe he was just born.) It has been tossed out by the back porch and started to sprout. It was soon replanted to a better location and has grown ever since.
it. is. massive.

it takes up the entire. back. yard.

it. is. beautiful.

This is the only home of my childhood that I still have access to.
When I was 6 my parents made their first move.
11 years later, we moved again.
My mother's parents' home was sold in a farm auction more than a decade ago.
I don't have a childhood home to go home to -- this is the only residence where I can actually walk, touch, feel, smell, the memories of my past. To say it was meaningful, to have been able be in it again, is almost a disgrace to the experience. It was taking a step back in time, yet being able to appreciate it with an adult recognition that a child can never know.

But perhaps the best part of the day was realizing that my own children are building memories at the only house left of my childhood -- the laundry shoot, the backyard tree, the tiny kitchen and green carpet.
Even the worms found in the yard -- becoming a part of a new childhood.

44 hours of rare family time: the next 16

My family's whirlwind weekend together, celebrating my mother's retirement, included plenty of time for indulgence, silliness, memories and good-natured gluttony.
Lauryn was on hand for most of the silliness:

There was plenty of time for hot tea, conversation and even a few hands of cards.

The memories came courtesy of a trip to my grandparents' house (which deserves its own post) and a box that had been stored in the basement for 12 years. It was labeled: "art projects and clippings, R, M, V needs to be sorted!"

And boy oh boy did it need to be sorted! Many of these art projects (done by the 3 sisters -- R, M and V) had survived two major moves. Starting in the Midwest (during the Regan administration), and moving 1000 miles to the east, before being moved back to the Midwest (during the Clinton administration.)

As you can imagine, the items we found in this box were priceless -- they left us roaring with laughter, ah-ha-ing with memories long since forgotten, and a few pieces even brought tears.
If nothing else, it was a confirmation that who we were as children would be cemented in fact, as we became adults. The personality traits were obvious in the art projects, newspaper clippings and letters we wrote as children. It provided lots of giggles.

The gluttony came in the form of my mother's wonderful cooking, and a tasty cake we had picked up for the first mother's day we had celebrated together since probably 1991.

I was the worst offender with the cake -- I think I had a piece after breakfast, lunch and supper. Sigh.

The 44 hours went far to quickly, but they were filled with enough memories to last the 6-8-12 months before we see each other again.

44 hours of rare family time: the first 11

In the early to mid days of mid-May, we had reason to celebrate and be together.
My mother is retiring from teaching. So despite all plans that would have made more sense, my family gathered for 44 hours of celebration. 44 hours from the time the first person stepped off the plane, from 1705 miles away, to the last moments of goodbye before everyone went back their separate ways.
It was wonderful.
We honored my mother and all she has done for her students, her schools, her community, over the years.

A reception provided cake, flowers, punch and conversation with people I hadn't seen in ages. While the adults reminisced, the children entertained themselves. Owen with a book (one that he had read 3 times in less than 2 days ) and a quiet corner. Lauryn with a new found friend and lots of exuberance.

Afterwards, we recreated a memory from my childhood -- taking flower to the grave sites of grandparents, great-grandparents, great uncles and aunts, uncles we never knew.

We gathered on the neatly mowed grass and learned lessons of long ago, remembered old faces and memories, laughed at old jokes, bowed our heads at solemn remembrances. My mother-in-law joined us. It was some 20 years ago, far before I would start dating her son, far before I would know her name, far before she would become my family, that she, as a Hospice nurse, cared for my dying grandfather. It was special to have her be there, to have her memories of my grandfather, intermingled with ours.

Then it was another drive, to another cemetery, to remember more lost relatives and to gather with loved live ones. A main street restaurant, with old walls and antique desks, drawers, shelves. A new Sierra Mist wall clock next to 100 year old photos. An original hardwood floor pounded with years of hard work.

There was time for learning, reading in German, finding out where our ancestors lived.

And then... the food.
If there is a better slice of heaven ANYWHERE in the world, I certainly haven't found it. Verenike with ham gravy, sausage, fried potatoes and a zweibach. This food may mean nothing to some of you -- but this, THIS, is the food that has filled stomachs and clogged arteries of my people for generations. And it, quite frankly is amazing. It is the kind food that can only be found on main street America, in diners that aren't listed in Google restaurant listings, that will take cash and checks, but no credit or debit cards, in historic buildings where the memories seep into the food, marinating them in a way a sorry Applebee's steak will never understand. I left with a full tummy, heartburn on the way, and another fond memory.

Finally, by night fall (having survived on only a 3 hour nap in the past 29 hours, but too excited to realize it) we headed back to mom and dad's house. We giggled, we laughed, we fell into bed.
It was an amazing 11 hours.
33 left to come...