Michael

I don't usually care about celebrities. Michael Jackson is different. The kids on my bus played the Thriller album on a boom box that they had gotten special permission to use after most of the other kids had been let go for the afternoon. The coolest kid on the bus had a red leather quilted jacket just like Michael's. My life marked pace to the rhythm of his hits. Mimi's and Pop-pop's house was Thriller, the Anguilla Avenue house was Man in the Mirror, etc. I remember watching the videos for Thriller, Billie Jean, and Dirty Diana on VH-1. I was crushed when I found out that Michael Jackson, as well as Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton (this shows where my musical repertoire gathered from) didn't write many of their own songs. Michael was my first introduction to the stark reality that showbusiness is business.

Of course, Michael fell out of vogue - at least for me. I was way beyond pop music. How could a highschooler who dressed in only shades of black, brown, and army green be caught dead enjoying the King of Pop?

In college, a friend adored Michael and this let me realize I did, too (I also first believed in God as a "thinking" "adult" because someone I admired did, so it made it okay for me. So shallow.). By then, he was way down plastic surgery lane and no longer looking very human. It was in college that I began to respect his profound talent. It's unmistakable in his little kid songs like ABC 123. But then to be able to move like he did - he's a phenomenon of pop talent. Amazing.

Anyway, I was struck by these comments about Michael, particularly the last one by Usher. The sadness is that Michael was ultimately a tragic figure. I feel badly for him. Who knows what cocktail of exposure, vanity, plastic surgery, and pop genius got him where he ended up. He just peeled out in slo mo over the last couple of decades. As sad as his untimely death is, the sadder part was the demise leading up to it. I can't help thinking that Showbiz did it to him.

My kids want to watch the video for ABC 123, which I am inclined to let them do.

Illustration and Yorktown Visit Pictures

A friend just told me, after finding out that Richie DID the illustration below, that she had thought I posted it because we were really "into" 18th-century dinner scene illustrations. That is a logical conclusion, since I've given no explanation. I think Richie did a great job on this project that was way out of his art comfort zone!

Happy Memorial Day!

Why I'm Spoiled Rotten Today.

I got to:

1. Get up and do yoga with Ali MacGraw and her soft-spoken yogi who tells you at the end, "For love is what's left when you let go of everything you don't need." The girls didn't get up until I was finished.
   
2. Cuddle with Vivian and play groundhog nest.
   
3. Make bacon and pancakes for my family.
4. Color George Washington with Mazie and Vivian. (Richie printed out one for everyone.)
   
5. Check to see which seeds have sprouted. These seeds have sprouted astonishingly early and, in some cases, against all odds, as the seeds are several years old. This Memorial Day, I see: Anaheim pepper, black beauty eggplant, Louisiana red tomato, Pritchard tomato, teeny tiny oregano (vulgaris), Cardinal tomato, Carantan leek, Thymus vulgaris, Sweet basil, Musselwhite bell pepper, Burpee Big Boy Hybrid tomato, Michilli Cabbage, Roma tomato, Brandywine tomato, sorrel, Muskmelon, french green lentil, and castillo lentil. Now to figure out what to do with the sprouts!
6. Take Mazie and Vivian to the pool for its opening day. It's cloudy with fits of rain today, so the intrepid swimmers only stayed in for about ten minutes.
7. Play the game of Uno that WOULD NOT END with M and V. V forfeited about ten minutes after I started drawing and playing for her because her activity had degenerated to the point that it was necessary to do so.
8. Make rockin' sandwiches that involved garden greens and melted mozzarella.
9. Later on I'll go to a cookout and see some of my favorite folks.

Yay, Memorial day. While I have been living it up, Richie has been doing this very cool, but very involved illustration. This is a sneak peek.

Best for your Memorial Day!

Vivian and Mazie

This morning, Mazie and Vivi were eating breakfast and we were listening to the radio. A local add came on saying something about, "If you're interested in technology on the radio...blah blah blah." The ad passed, Vivian finished her bite, and then said, "I'm interested in technology on the radio." And she sounded really serious, as though that ad guy had been addressing her in particular. That was cute enough to crack up Mazie...and me, of course.

Vivian waited another minute and said, "I know what technology is. It's when people dig in the ground to find out what happened a long time ago." Sweeeet baby.

Mazie has learned enough that she rarely makes these cute juxtapositions. The thing about her that is so fun right now is just listening to her go. If she has a mind to, she'll talk about every detail of her day. She is very aware of what other kids say and how they act...what they like, if they're acting "off" from their normal behavior. She's sensitive to getting bossed around, and tends to avoid bossy people. She likes Ian, Grayson, and Jackson - anyone else who's consistently nice to her.

Mazie likes doing math in her head instead of on her fingers, but she's better at getting the right answer if she uses fingers. It's fun to hear her describe how she comes up with the answers she gets in her head. For instance, I quizzed her on 7 + 7. She told me 14 because she remembered it. Next I asked her 8 + 8. She thought at length and said, "Okay," at intervals. Finally she said, "16!" When I asked her how she decided on 16, she said she imagined two columns of seven and she added one to each one and then she reasoned she had to add 2 to the previous answer because she could "see" them. Next I asked her 9 + 9 and she quickly said, "12!" She finally worked that one out on her fingers to get the right answer. It's hit-and-miss right now, but I think she's dying to memorize sums to make it quicker for her. I'll have to get on that...without overburdening her.

Off to the bus stop.

I love jogging in the woods (from a few days ago; waited on photos)

I love to call what I do jogging because that word connotes moving around, even jiggling, but more up-and-down than forward. And that's how I roll. Our apartment is less than a mile from 5 (or so) miles of woods trails.

I was pure ebullience this afternoon. I had a difficult jog, less easy than I'd like it to be, but I absolutely have to rave about the following aspects of jogging in the woods:

1. Green sunshine. Filtering through leaves. It's so bright and so lacy.
2. Smells of leaves and flowers and dirt.
3. Skittering animals. All the animals do the wave as I jog past - squirrels, birds, deer, unseen slitheries in the leaves.
4. Very Few People. I like people, but I crave running in solitude. The others I meet seem to share my tastes.
5. The single-file path has hills and turns and little ledges. I get that zooming feeling fairly frequently without having to go fast.

God meets me in the woods. The end.

Day-to-day

It's the first hot + overcast day of the year. Before today, if there was cloud cover, it was cool cloud cover. I'm just hoping the humidity doesn't decide to consolidate and rain down on the clothes I have hung on the clothes line. In other news of the neighborhood, the pool area (just behind our apartment) has been buzzing with activity for a week solid. The dedicated maintenance personnel are scurrying to de-debris, chemically zap, and filter the pool before Memorial Day weekend. Mazie and Vivian have taken note of each stage:

"Mommy, they're using the leaf blower!"
"Mommy, I can see the water!"
"Mommy, what's in the water?"
"Mommy, the pool is bright green!"

And, today, "Mommy, I think we can swim now!" Yes, and then we can put you in quarantine for decontamination protocol. The truth is, I'm pretty excited, too. Looking forward to donning my wetsuit to brave the - gasp - 70 degree water. I never thought I'd be so "sensitive to the cold." But it seems that as years fly by, I am on a steady path towards more closely resembling my mother in every detail, including cold intolerance.

I'm blogging about nothing to avoid writing about the fact that we are MOVING IN FIVE WEEKS. Good grief, how the time flies. I guess I'm lucky to have waited until the passage of time has approached light speed to begin medical school. At this rate, I won't notice I'm in it until I'm half done. Today's preparatory activities include but are not limited to (and I am, officially, a "doer"):

• Trying to find e-mail about preschool programs in Decatur (Fail.)
• Putting Vivian on wait list for Fernbank pre-K (Pending. Can only do in person.)
• Researching moving truck rental rates (check.)
• Scheduling check ups for immunizations for Mazie, Vivian, and....me! (THREE Checks.)
• Delivery of brownies and thank-you note to kind dentist who treated my dry socket pro bono (Check.)
• Purchase of stamps (pending.)
• Sorting of the birds' nest of hand-me-down electronics in the top drawer of Richie's desk (check.)
  
• In hopes of finding the charger for the camera (fail. It's at work with Richie) that I need to use to...
• Transfer peoples' wedding videos onto DVD. (pending) (Y'all probably thought I forgot. But not ONE day has passed that I have completely forgotten that I promised some footage...and I secretly believe karmic bliss waits on the other side of completing this task.)
• Find and print physical evaluation form for check-up. (check. Discovery: my doctor will be asked to respond in writing to the question, "Do you know of any physical or psychological reason why this student would not be able to withstand the rigors of medical school education?" The next seven years of my life apparently hinge on this.)
  
• Purchase plastic bags for sorting small things. (pending)
  
• Hang dry two loads of laundry. (in progress.)

I just want to give a shout out to my season. I love running in hot weather, dressing for hot weather, being hot. I love that I'm less ravenous in summer and that my shoulders can stop creeping up near my ears and relax into the warm atmosphere down by the rest of my torso. I love being able to dry laundry on the line where the sun is free free free. I love that my oregano is finally coming into its own.

Finally, I'd like to explain the Hunter drawing I posted. Mazie was listening to a CD that has a song about camoflouge. This is the picture she drew while listening. The deer is saying, "Run."

Birds

Earlier today I was looking through my bird book so that I could tell Vivian the name of one of the birds we saw. The diversity and complexity of bird life in North America is a wonder, first of all. Then I love the way that Field Guide to the Birds describes bird calls so specifically that you can actually hear them in your head:

White-breasted nuthatch:

"Typical song, a rapid series of nasal whistles on one pitch. Call is usually a low-pitched, repeated, nasal yank; higher pitched and given in a rapid series in Great Basin and Rockies birds."

Brown-headed nuthatch:

"Call is a repeated double note like the squeak of a rubber duck. Feeding flocks also give twittering, chirping, and talky bit bit bit calls."

Hermit Warbler:

"Song is a high seezle seezle seezle seezle zeet-zeet."

Blue-gray Gnatcatcher:

"Call is a thin, querulous pwee. Song, a series of melodious but wheezy warbles.

Finally, there are plates in the book where Pop-pop has scratched out some of the species names and replaced them with the names he knew to be more current. So, the Brown Towhee has apparently split into either Canyon Towhee or California Towhee, depending on where you see it. The Solitary Vireo has now become either the Blue-headed in The East, the Cassin's in The West, or the Plumbeous in The Rockies.

I miss Pop-pop. One day I hope to retire and watch birds all the time with Richie. Or something like that.

And, in keeping with National Poetry Month, here's some Wallace Stevens. This is one of the first poems I remember loving, way back in 10th grade in Mrs. Gillham's class.

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
___________

If you are wondering (I am) what the Field Guide to the Birds has to say about the blackbird's call, you first have to choose between the Yellow-headed, Red-winged, Tricolored, Rusty, or Brewer's Blackbird. I choose Brewer's because it seems common enough and because it looks like the archetypal blackbird in my mind: black and nondescript.

"Typical call is a harsh check; song, a wheezy que-ee or k-seee."

P.S. Mazie and Vivian are playing a raucous game of Baby-in-the-Mud.

Poetry Month

This has been the first year that Poetry Month has taken up space in my mind. Justin and Mel Moore, Randy Crump, NPR, my church services, and Mazie's kindergarten class all took notice this year.

I just want to say, I love poetry a lot more now that I no longer try to produce any. For me, the production of poetry involved an embarrassing mix of angst and self-consciousness. I hope one day I'll be able to write something worth reading, poetry or prose. But for now I'm content to read others' work. Some of my favorite poems were introduced to me by others who linked to them or who took the time to type them out or cut-and-paste them into their web logs. So, here's my contribution. It's one I first read about ten years ago and haven't read recently at all because I lent out my Mary Oliver book and never got it back.

Cold Poem
By Mary Oliver

(for Brandi's parents, who have successfully survived another honest-making winter)

Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
_______________

Then there's Wendell Berry, slightly more hopeful:

Mad Farmer Liberation Front, 1972

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
  vacation with pay. Want more
  of everything ready-made. Be afraid
  to know your neighbors and to die.
  And you will have a window in your head.
  Not even your future will be a mystery
  any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
  and shut away in a little drawer.
  When they want you to buy something
  they will call you. When they want you
  to die for profit they will let you know.
  

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

I guess you can talk about poetry all you like. But you just know when someone has expressed something - a thought, conviction, emotion, complaint, restlessness, truth, or a love that you know.

Dental Woes

I never pictured myself as toothless or even tooth-impaired. Since becoming an adult, I've basically taken care of my teeth. I brush twice daily and I floss before bed. Usually. Nonetheless, at the beginning of this year, I had some lingering cavities from days of yore and one back lower molar (#18) with a crownless root canal.

I wanted to get these things taken care of as inexpensively as possible, so I went through the screening to be accepted as a patient in the dental school in Richmond, one hour away. My dental student, Stephanie, is bright and capable. I'm sure she'll be a fantastic dentist. We got started on my treatment plan, which I hoped wouldn't be that involved.

Things were going smoothly. I had no dental pain. All I needed were some fillings and a decision about that back tooth that I'd let out to pasture. But then Stephanie was doing a filling on #19, #18's sole next-door neighbor, and disaster struck. She had put a rubber dam on my mouth to keep the composite filling dry when she got to that point. She needed to adjust the dam, but the shiny metal clamp wouldn't release as it should have. She asked for her preceptor's help, and he couldn't get it off either. The dental assistant kindly inserted that she had seen a dentist use a burr to cut the clamp off on a previous occasion. But the preceptor kept wrenching and kept wrenching with a metal tool until, finally, the clamp shot off, dinging the roof of my mouth with a fantastic "CHINK!" As this happened, a piece of my tooth went sailing through the air and hit my folded hand. The dentist pocketed the tooth chunk and I've never seen him again. After the preceptor vanished without aknowledgement of possible damage dealt to #19, Stephanie noted for the first time a "craze line" - a crack - in my tooth.

As that was happening, I thought to my mute (remember the rubber dam - I was literally unable to argue what was going on in my mouth) self, "This can't be good." That night, after the numbness had worn off, I had the most tenderness I had ever felt after a filling and the tooth was exquisitely painful to chew on. No matter, I thought, I'd give it a few days. A few days later, my jaw and tooth were basically back to normal except that it really hurt to chew on poor, newly cracked #19.

This is a long story, so to sum up (keeping in mind that the dental school is an hour away and my dear, patient, beleaguered friend Sarah always keeps Vivian for me): I went back to the dental school and they determined I do have a severely cracked tooth that had not been noted prior to the incident. So they offered to give me a root canal and crown for free to try to fix the problem. That process has been free, but has taken four four-hour appointments and my tooth still hurts with the temporary crown on it. RRRRRRRR. I've reconciled that it's just going to hurt to chew on it until I can afford an implant when I'm forty.

My last appointment at the dental school eight days ago addressed #18 with extraction. It would have been very expensive, yet impermanent to re-treat it. So I opted for extraction. It was an involved extraction that the oral surgeon said "Was more difficult than an impacted third molar" because it had had a root canal and also had a tenacious root system. Anyway, they got it out and I was euphoric to have that over with.

Long stupid story shorter: I got a dry socket from that extraction. Pain! And not only #19, but also the tooth directly above it got cracked in the "flying clamp" incident. I only started noticing the crack on the upper tooth after I had a root canal and crown because I no longer favored the bottom tooth. Darrrrh! Anyway, it pays to floss. Flossing wouldn't have helped directly in my case, but it would've kept me out of the dental chair in the first place, and my teeth wouldn't have gotten cracked.

April Day

Hi, Everyone. Here are some recent pictures of the girls. And a chocolate bunny that they mutilated and then decorated. Awesome. The little girl between Vivian and Mazie in the church photo is our friend, Lucy Park, who is exactly one year older than Vivian and one year younger than Mazie.

For my birthday, Richie gave me the standard pocket-sized handbook of internal medicine that real live physicians carry around in the pockets of their white coats. What a cool, forward-thinking gift! After taking some time to look through it, I'm officially re-terrified. There's so much to know. The handbook is proof that you can't know it all (otherwise, why carry a handbook). I can't imagine myself knowing ALL those abbreviations or having a grasp of all the physiology that will help me understand the myriad manifestations of disease. I remember seeing the doctors I worked with craning to read the fine print of their pocket-sized manuals...I guess that'll eventually be me.

In other news, the cherry trees in front of our townhouse are blooming with unmitigated frivolity. What a sweet surprise our first year here to find that the trees go wild for one week out of the year. This year, Richie and I were determined not to miss the trees' amazing week. The wind is blowing in hard gusts today, whipping up the fallen blossoms and blowing them about in blizzardly fashion. It really does look like pale pink snow.

Also in today's news, Vivian found the bathing suits. I keep them hidden during the cold months for their own protection. I know Vivian found them because when I called her downstairs to go out and enjoy the wind, she was wearing Emma Weed's outgrown blue bathing suit with a watermelon slice on the front - over underwear (that's my rule). She looked very pleased with herself. I remember how fun it was to feel sleek and beautiful in a one-piece. Why don't I feel that way anymore? I think Vivian is feeling good enough for all of us.

God meets me when I go outside.

Yesterday I shirked jogging because I was disgruntled about the weather. Today I forced myself to get suited up and go in spite of the rain. Spring is springing in Williamsburg. The dogwoods are beginning to bloom and the trees are about 1/3 leafy. Today everything was soaked to the skin (the German word for that is "klatzschnass" (sp?) - how delightful to have a word for it). The branches were dark, the leaves were heavy and wet and the whole forest sounded subdued and drippy. Apparently, the squirrels are also disgruntled about the weather because I heard none stir today as I ran past when usually I scare up dozens of little scurries on my course through College Woods. I imagine today they are having one last scrap of winter rest with their noses under their tails before going full throttle until next winter.

I love to see all the buds small and bright and tightly wrapped. They are so expectant...I remember how that feels. I can almost hear God reminding me of the irrepressibleness of life. My crotchety hip (no pun here) reminds me that I have begun the long decline into the dissociation of my joints, cells, and molecules. I've been part of the budding, flowering, and fruiting. I'm sensing how certain it is I'll eventually moulder. And God is good no matter which station I occupy in this cycle. I think I'm somewhere around second base. Maybe between second and third. Who knows. I don't care as long as I can suck some fresh air every day among respiring trees.

Am I a hippie? You didn't just read that. I didn't just write it.

Internets

They're organized. They're quiet. They're pretty. I can adjust the colors of my gmail any way I want them. I LOVE adjusting colors.

I also love learning about tissue types. I'm still on epithelial, but I'm moving on to connective soon.

Back from the dirty south

And into the clean south. I'm not altogether joking. Those of you with delicate constitutions proceed with caution.

Atlanta, Georgia is different from Williamsburg, Virginia. The drivers drive more maniacally, the weather is stormier, and there are 800% more billboards. Azaleas explode. Hills roll. The people - the longtime residents - are much, much different than Virginians. The accent is obvious, but deeper than the accent is...well, I think Uncle Ray sums it up.

Uncle Ray is awesome. He's Richie's mom's brother, born and raised in Cabbagetown just like Richie's mom. I think he enjoys the attention we give him, so he usually swings by when we visit Richie's folks. He is tall and wide but not fat. He has square shoulders, a square jaw, and even square hair. He usually arrives wearing sweat pants a little high-up and a quilted plaid jacket over a tee-shirt. And a UGA baseball cap. In fact, I think everything he had on Saturday invoked the name of that sweet-spirited University. I think that level of UGA advertisement is beyond letting everyone know you support the team. I think Uncle Ray may get a good feeling each time he sees "UGA," and so he's maximizing his chances of catching a glimpse of the logo.

When Ray came into the living room the girls were cuddled up with Nana watching cartoons. I explained that they have to load up on high-definition cartoons while they're at Nana and Poppy's because we don't own a television. To which Ray replied, "Why ain't you got a T.V.?" And I dutifully started explaining in the least-superior way I could that we actually had one that we got rid of because we just spend so much time watching TV... It can really be such a big time suck. To which Ray wrinkled up his nose and said "Bull." And then let his word hang in the air. Then he said, "Well if you need one, I got an extra."

A little later, Richie's dad was remarking that a tornado tore through a cove of Lake Lanier and messed up every dock and threw a tree on a brand-new Lexus. Ray immediately said, in front of the girls, "That was just like the one I knocked the shit out of downtown the other day." He went on to explain that the driver got out of the car livid because the lady in front of Ray had ceded the right of way to the driver. Ray allegedly said to the driver, "She can't give you my right-of-way." He told us that now Big M (his wife) is going to have to buy him a truck.

I adore Uncle Ray. He was one of Richie's family members who welcomed me immediately. He is one of the funniest people I've ever met and has a rock-solid character, too. By which I mean, he'll tell you if he's going to lie to you. He'd give you anything he could if he thought you needed it. He adores his grandkids. Last time he came over, he was carrying an article in the paper that featured his grandson, Joseph. It turns out that Joseph's accomplishments are truly noteworthy by anyone's standards - he's an awesome football player and a top-notch student. He just got a huge football scholarship offer from Stanford. Ray's so proud he could pop. I get excited when I hear about Joseph because I know his success means a lot to so many people - especially Ray. I also know that, coming from this family, he has a lot more grit and is likely to take more risks than most people he'll meet at Stanford. He's going to have to try to explain Ray to people who are just not going to get it unless they come East to visit.

Georgia has culture. My husband was born and raised in the culture. I was a reluctant participant in Georgia culture when I lived there. I squelched my accent. I rolled my eyes. I hated country music. But I think I get it now that I'm less busy being cool and disaffected. At least I thoroughly respect that Uncle Ray can talk about a car wreck like he meant to do that. I think the state has made some rotten decisions about how much signage it allows on the highways, and I detest the proliferation of big-box, big-outlet, big boot, big, wide, and tall retail. I'm learning to appreciate old country music and its mountain music progenitors. I love a good consistent accent. And the azaleas - huge banks of them in different lipstick shades - are some of the prettiest things I've seen. Praise the growing season and curse the developers; Uncle Ray sounds the best doing either.

When Ray left Shirley and Russell's house that morning, we had gone outside to play. He stopped the car near where we were playing to collect hugs. He gave us $50 "ice cream money" for the girls and said, "I got that T.V. if y'all want it," with a twinkle in his eye. We've got about 10 ice cream trips coming up, financed by Ray Smallwood.

Spring Break '09

This isn't the coldest spring break ever (college breaks were in early March), but I expected warmer weather from April.

The girls and I went to Yorktown beach today for some sand play. Today's high is...(lemme check) 58 F, so it must've been about 50 when we arrived. Wind whipped little choppy waves onto the sand. Yorktown beach is man-made, and I'm a sand snob, so I'm a tiny bit snobby that the sand there is that man-moved gravelly quartzy stuff with heavy dust. The girls loved it regardless of the type of sand, and that was the goal. We brought Pots of Fun (thanks again, Grandma) and lots of tea sets. I packed some assorted animals (turtle, sheep, 2 ponies, 2 dinosaurs). The girls had strict instructions not to get wet or play in the wet sand. They more or less avoided both. We had a glorious, if chilly, morning playing tea party, chase, and "Oh, no, I have a huge growth on my leg!"

We took the Colonial Parkway back home, a wide scenic thoroughfare that connects the "Historic Triangle." We were listening to W-Bach and remarking that the particular piece was perfect for the day. A car just in front of me veered off to exit; I veered a little, too, as one would in a game of follow-the-leader...and I hit the curb a little. I know this is awful - but I did it.

It became clear within 10 seconds that we had a flat. Luckily, there are more scenic pull-offs on the Colonial Parkway than there are Exits on I-95, and we happened to be passing one at that very moment with our woppy tire. So, I pulled in, popped the trunk and began deciphering the myriad roadside emergency tools therein. The donut was easy to find. But, I swear, that car lacks nothing but flares. There may actually be flares hidden beneath the assortment of reflectored blockades (no kidding) and emergency lights. Anyway, I finally had to put in a call to Richie because in all the assortment of oily, mouldering roadside thingz, I had failed to find the jack. In the side compartment, said Richie.

So, with jack, donut, and L-shaped lugnut loosener in hand, I began to decide on the positioning and connectivity of the apparatus. I had just realized I lacked the jack handle, consulted Richie about the shape of the handle, found the jack handle, and was connecting the jack handle, when a red pickup pulled into the pulloff behind me. A stout, kindly man got out of the truck and asked if I needed help. Yes, thank you.

But I just have to say: I didn't REALLY need help. I just thought it stupid to refuse when this man (Hank) appeared to have lots of experience. After all, I was still monkeying with which way to loop on the jack handle. Hank was super nice and changed the tire in about four minutes. He cautioned me to go easy on the donut and get some air in it first thing. When I thanked Hank, he replied he hoped someone would stop to help his daughter if she had a flat. I suspect that Hank's daughter may not need help if she has a flat. Pete, if you're reading this, I didn't really NEED help, honest. I just looked like I did. My real problem is daydreaming on the Colonial Parkway.

Anyway, I couldn't have had a nicer flat tire. The weather was perfect, the girls were patient, and I had expert help. But I can't help but wonder, what do I need to do to look capable of handling a flat tire? Maybe not have a cell phone on my ear? Maybe wear jeans and button-down shirts instead of work-out pants and Hello Kitty hoodies? Maybe practice changing tires more than once a decade? So much for breaking stereotypes.

"We had cookie."

Okay, when you read the above statement, what does it mean to you?

Yesterday, I attended a lunch wherein I gave feedback on a physics text I used in my physics classes, and so Richie took Vivian to lunch. I had to go to the doctor unexpectedly and didn't have time to pack a lunch, so I packed some sides, two oranges and a giant cookie, to be add-ons for whatever Richie decided to get for lunch. I assumed that might be a Subway sandwich.

When Richie and Vivian picked me up after lunch, I noticed the cookie hadn't been eaten. Richie and I quietly finished the cookie without offering any to Vivian. We dropped Richie off at his job, and as Vivian and I pulled away, Vivian said, "Daddy said we were going to have cookie after lunch."

Ugh! Richie promised cookie and then ate it and let me eat it and didn't tell me that it had already been promised to Vivian! I felt disappointed with Richie and guilty toward Vivian for eating the cookie. So I resolved we'd swing by the grocery store on the way home and purchase some manner of cookie for Vivian. I told Vivian that we didn't have any cookie with us right now, but we'd stop and get some cookies. To which she replied, "Daddy said we had cookie!" She kept insisting, and I kept saying, we don't have cookie NOW, but we're about to get some...so please settle down already! By the time we were at the grocery store, her rhetoric had simplified somewhat to, "We HAD cookie!"

We got out of the car and the change of scenery seemed to quiet Vivian. We grabbed a package of Hit cookies, paid, and left. When we got back in the car, I asked Vivian what she ate for lunch. She replied, "Wrap and potato salad." I KNOW the wrap and potato salad meal. It comes from the very grocery store we had just been in, and I know the third component of the meal that Vivian hadn't mentioned (or had she?): Cookies. So I changed my line of questioning. "Vivian, did you already eat a cookie today?" She said, "You mean with Daddy?" "Yes, with Daddy." "Uh - just one cookie. I TOLD you. We had cookie."

AHHHHHH! She had already had cookie! I turned to look at her to see what sort of expression she'd be wearing after all this. She was trying her best to suppress a smile, then it sort of eeked out the side and she looked out the window as if there was something really interesting out there. She is a mess. And she got ONE more cookie before naptime.

Sweet Walking

Vivian and I did Sweet Walking today. We packed our lunch in the cactus bag: carrot sticks, soft bread, cottage cheese, two hard-boiled eggs, two oranges, and a water bottle. We donned sun hats and sunglasses and then we walked to Colonial Williamsburg. We had to stop at the library to use the bathroom, and by the time Vivian announced, "We walked all the way to Williamsburg!" I thought it best to stop there in the interest of getting back in a decent amount of time. But we had made it to Brown Hall, which has a fantastic courtyard complete with new picnic tables. Perfect.

Vivian and I ate at a leisurely pace, shedding our shoes and touching our socky feet together on top of the picnic bench. We lay across the benches and looked up at the sky, describing what we saw in turn. We saw a squirrel jump from a neighboring tree into our field of view at the exact same time and we both gasped. There was a contrail against the cloudless sky. The trees don't yet have leaves, but they're just about to, so all the branches look bumpy and buddy and ready to pop.

At length, we finished our food (except for the oranges, which I meant to save for the return journey) and set out for the library again. We went in the front door. It's a tax workshop today, so local people were lined up indoors waiting to get help with their taxes. And elderly lady with longish white hair was describing a personal struggle as we passed, "I always go in with the best of intentions, but...." Vivian knows the layout of the library well, so she led the way to the children's section. She darted for the computer, but I suggested the trains instead, so while she played, I carefully chose six books from the surrounding shelves: four easy readers, one Bill Peet, and one Jan Brett. We checked out - and had our three-dollar fine lowered to two by the kindly librarian.

I had planned to sweeten the walk back with the two oranges, and it worked pretty well. Vivian ate an orange and a half, trip-trapping happily the entire time. But when she finished, we were only about one-third of the way home. I cut through a big open lot to try to shorten the trip. When we came out on Richmond Road, Vivian's diversion of choice became the assortment of new wild flowers in the yards we passed. She picked several, each from a different yard, then gave me one to put behind my ear.

I basically enjoy the 1.4-mile walk between our house and the library, except for crossing the strip mall / busy intersection part of the walk. Today we waited a full minute for the traffic to let us across Monticello. And when we crossed, a gust of wind blew Vivian's hat off her head and onto the street. There was enough time and visibility for us to go back and get it, but I always feel so exposed and vulnerable at that intersection. People are supposed to go 25, but they're always in the middle of an acceleration to forty when I see them.

Vivi didn't complain until we were almost in sight of our apartment building. She said, "I wish we drove." I reminded her how much fun most of the walk had been. To which she replied, "When we get home I'm going to rest my back. Can we put my flowers in the same jar with the cherry blossoms?" And then we crossed the street to our building and were home.

What a sweet day. I am so thankful to have this absolute leisure to move at Vivian's pace for big chunks of time. It makes me wonder why I haven't had the ability to relax more often. I admit having fought the slowness of the child's pace - not all the time, but some of it. And I've really missed out. I can see that on days like today, when I do take time to just be with Vivian.

Some February Fun

In no particular order: Family outing at CW, the jellyfish tank at the Virginia Living Museum, and Vivi with her avowed favorite person in the whole wide world.

Our camera is so full of photos and videos that our computer can't process them all. It's weird and I think it has something to do with the limitations of USB.

But we're still kicking, even though there's no photographic evidence to support my claim. This weekend was warm and lovely, so we had a picnic at the Governor's Palace, played in the woods, played outside at church, and then spent the afternoon at the playground in the course of this one weekend. Everybody was delighted to shed jackets and enjoy the sunshine.

There is an amazing slide at a playground near here. You can really get up some speed, and it's wide enough for all four of us to fit. We were sliding down the slide merrily yesterday when we hit a hitch. Some big kids (with whom I'd already developed a rapport when the 10-1sh boy checked with me to see if an earring he found was "real") came over and started sliding down then turning right back around and climbing up the slide. All the little kids were backed up, not to mention the adults who were sliding down (me and Richie). So I said, "Hey, you're not obeying the slide rule; Up The Ladder/Down The Slide!" They ignored me. So I shouted, "Hey, I'm serious - you're messing up the flow for all the little ones. Slide down now and use the slide like everyone else." They did.

I did this without thinking about it. It seemed simple. They had no mindful adult within hearing range or within sight. If my kids were being creeps, I'd want an adult to step in - politely. Then if my kids continued to be creeps, I'd want the adult to insist.

Looking back, I have always intervened in these instances, even when I was a teenager.

1. When I was about 16, there was a pint-sized bully at the ice skating rink who kept knocking much bigger novice ice skaters (myself included) off-balance. I fussed him out and told him to quit.
2. When I was about 19, there were some kids running wild at Mama Mia's Deli. The adults seemed not to notice that the kids were running and shouting and taking up the whole tiny deli. So I told them to hush and sit in one place. They did.
3. When I was about 20, I was jogging in a public place when a young teenage boy ran up beside me and fell into step with me, his face twisted into some sort of puerile mockery. I told him to get lost and I said some things that may have helped him think twice before interrupting another lady jogger.
4. The instances of my stepping in as an adult are too many to count. I remember the early ones because they didn't fit with my age-role.
   

Also, I have always given cat-callers (who have miraculously left me alone in the past five years or so :) the bird.

Am I overconfident? I think I just want things to go right. I don't respect peoples' anonymity, for good or for ill, and I don't expect people to ignore me. Who are we kidding, anyway? I'm also super-friendly with people in public, to balance out my uninvited policing. But I'll be darned if I'm going to shrink or cower when somebody's clogging up the slide or ruining dinner unnecessarily or overstepping their sexual boundaries at me. So far, it's worked out okay.

Looking back, I think I come by it honestly. Picture: My mom, 33 (I was 13), in line for the Mind Bender at Six Flags. She's wearing: Neon pink athletic shorts, similarly neon tie-dyed tee shirt, and tube socks with high tops. A fanny pack. Come to think of it, I think even her socks are tie-dyed. We're waiting dutifully in line, entertaining ourselves with the same music video played for the nine-thousandth time and by making innocuous observations about passers-by. We are nudged aside by two really big 20-something men who just look rough. My mom puffs up in her outfit, pursues them a few feet and taps one on the shoulder. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" The men glance back for an instant and then continue their forward progress past other dutiful rollercoaster devotees.

After that happened, my mom took a few minutes to puff down (her righteous anger had been activated, and that means some sizzle). I was mortified.

Since I do the exact same thing now even though I hated it when my mom did this sort of thing, I think it's genetic.

Anyway, I just got jostled aside by my girls who are playing "Antarctica." They are a polar bear and a walrus. Vivian just said, "I am a walrus and I have lots of strong blubber and lots of strong bones and lots of strong muscles." Oh, now Mazie's on a cactus. I guess that's the joy of pretend: you can switch biomes instantly.

I'm making a new pinto beans recipe tonight and (incidentally) we did some tie-dying of our own this afternoon. We chose primaries, but neon tie-dye is totally rockin' too.

Here's a photo of Mazie climbing off of the bus. The girl right behind her is Betty. I promised to tell you the story of Mazie and Betty on the bus, so here goes...

One day during the second month of kindergarten, I was just about to scurry out the door to meet Mazie's afternoon bus when the phone rang. It was Mazie's teacher, Ms.V. She was calling to let me know that as the bus was pulling away, but before it had left the bus lot, Mazie had gotten her finger stuck in a pencil sharpener. Ms. V had seen the bus stop in the lot, so she climbed on board to see if she could help. Mazie's finger was cut and bleeding. Mazie was distraught, and the little girl who had been responsible had been reprimanded. The offending child had an appointment with the assistant principal.

Right away, I knew who the little girl was. It had to be Betty, a third grader who has been assigned to sit with Mazie. It was Betty who told Mazie her cousin was Hannah Montana, Betty who takes kids' snacks, Betty who administers time-outs to Mazie if she speaks. When Mazie had worn a sticker on her shirt, Betty told her she'd better take it off because it could burrow through her shirt and skin, into her heart, and kill her. We had warned Mazie that she couldn't trust Betty and that she should not do what Betty tells her to do. Apparently, our warnings didn't stand the test of peer pressure.

After the phone call, I ran out to the bus stop and waited. As the bus swung into view, I could already see Betty standing up, sobbing. Betty's mom never actually comes to the bus stop, but waits outside their apartment building for Betty to run from the bus stop to the apartment. That day, the bus stopped in front of Betty's mom, and Miss Lois leaned out the window, presumably to let Betty's mom know what had happened. The bus rolled up to the bus stop and Betty tore down the steps and fled from the bus, her face clenched and tear-streaked. Mazie came off next, a little puffy-eyed, with a band-aid, but talking immediately about an art project she had brought home. Miss Lois asked if Mazie's teacher had contacted me and I said she had. Miss Lois rolled her eyes in a beleaguered way (this is Miss Lois's favorite form of nonverbal communication) and assured me that Betty would not be sitting with Mazie any more.

First of all, the damage to Mazie's finger was minimal. She had a cut on the tip of her index finger that nicked the nail and was deep enough to bleed a lot. (As an aside, and to calm the nerves of any protective family members, it healed completely within one week.) I gathered from Mazie, who is a very reliable historian for being only five, that Betty had told her to put her finger in the sharpener. Mazie had refused. Betty told her again, and Mazie refused again. Finally, Betty seized Mazie's finger and sharpened it forcefully. Mazie had started bleeding, then crying, and then the grown-ups got involved. Miss Lois had put ice from her soda on the wound, and then Miss V had arrived with reinforcements. The assistant principal had paid a visit to Betty before the bus even left, so Mazie felt that the matter had been dealt with urgently.

I also was satisfied that between the distress I had seen on Betty's face, the visit from the AP, and the fact that Betty was not to sit with Mazie anymore, that Mazie would be safe from further sharpening...

What a lesson! I realized it's important to arm my kids with a healthy enough sense of propriety and disobedience that they can stand up to a bigger kid when they're in danger. That evening, I had to tell Richie. I had been so mad that I was shaking when Ms. V first told me the news. But by the time Mazie told me all about her art project and seemed relatively unruffled by the sharpening incident, I had cooled off a lot. Richie usually takes things like this pretty hard, and this was no exception.

The next day, Betty came to the bus stop with her mom, who forced (with lots of verbal prompting) Betty to apologize and give Mazie an apology note. It seemed appropriate at first. Betty reluctantly said to Mazie, "I'm sorry. I thought your fingernails needed cutting. And that's not my place to decide." The suggestion was that it wasn't malice or even curiosity that caused Betty to sharpen Mazie's fingertip, but intense concern for her grooming habits. Though I am unconvinced that Betty divulged her motives with complete candor, Mazie accepted the apology and seemed very thankful for the three stickers with which Betty had embellished the card.

For those of you still feeling protective of Mazie, I think she survived the sharpening incident a lot more wary of other kids. In all, I am glad to have had an unpleasant experience that we could deal with fairly easily. I think we all learned from it.

Virginia Living & Loving Museum