Back Home Again

Posted on November 2, 2014 by alivingpencil

October was a friendship-saturated month.

When I had an empty day in a city far from home, I contacted Faith,
an online friend. We picked up as if we had known
each other forever, drinking pots of tea and talking nonstop.

A week of solitude meant garden clean-up, reading, walking,
and a trip to the wildlife refuge to feast on the Harvest Moon.

My husband and I had a few days in the middle
where our schedules synced. The joy of reuniting, ah!

I met two year old Max and his mom on a flight to Minneapolis.
When he got antsy, I snapped a photo and let him see.
Take another, he urged. He drew in my journal with many colors;
years from now his drawing will remind me of our brief friendship.

A fire is a great conversation accessory. On my cousin’s
back deck we not only caught up on our 17 years apart,
but I—thanks to her transparency—got a tutorial
on life as a new widow.

We gloried in fall colors.

Our dads were brothers. We talked through our
family history, all those quirks we recognize.

And we laughed.

Then to Chicago for my annual visit.
I enjoy studying each my sister Dorothy’s dozen grandchildren:
their gifts, what motivates and aggravates them,
their unique personalities.

My sister Margaret soldiers through many infirmities.
Cancer and a stroke have attacked but can’t quench her spirit.
Through the pain I never hear her complain.

Several other friends blessed me with time and attention,
a precious gift. Our friendships span the years.
Stories jogged memories.

Tender mercies, all.

Emma’s Wedding

Posted on September 27, 2014 by alivingpencil

Today, it’s been two months since my niece Emma married Glyn. In my life, the big things aren’t cemented until I’ve written them. From writing this wedding I have cowered, knowing my word hoard hasn’t the depth or width required. I refuse to use ‘epic’ and ‘awesome’, yet I’m still searching for the best words.

It was a grand Coming Together. Emma is American. Glyn is British. They live in Turkey. Their friends live all over the world. Each mileage sign represents someone who came to the wedding. The only continents not represented were South America, Australia, and Antarctica.

This wedding occupied three days. Everyone was invited to the rehearsal dinner aka Lobster Feed, the wedding the next day, and a brunch the day after the wedding. It resembled the medieval feasts that I read about in my books.

The ceremony was held under the ancient apple tree.

The background was my sister-in-law’s glorious garden.

She grew almost all the flowers for the wedding.

My daughter-in-law made the bride’s bouquet.

A sail cloth tent hovered over the festivities.
My grandson said, “Nana, it looks like Narnia.”

The tables were set.

Mismatched china completely charmed me.
‘Elegant simplicity’ set the tone.

All the cloths under the flowers were purchased
at the bazaar in Istanbul.

My brother, the tenor, sang Simple Gifts, a song
that he sang at the wedding of Emma’s parents.

Emma and Glyn listen.

Kids were welcomed with open arms.
Not often does one hear, “I’m so glad you brought all your kids!“

We’ve always loved Emma; it was easy to see why she loved Glyn.
They are both strong, generous, compassionate, and fun.
Not to mention smart. They have our deep respect.

As long as I’m giving honor, let me say that my brother Jim
and my sister-by-marriage Kathleen were stellar. This event was
the culmination of a lifetime of love invested in their family, work on
their homestead, their habits of beauty, blessing, and hospitality.

Emma’s older brother Will—best friend of bride
and groom—officiated. This was his first gig. We called
him—tongue in cheek—”Brother Will.”

There were some great toasts: sweet, witty, heartfelt.
But at the end of the day, what everyone remembered
and remarked on was Jim’s toast to his daughter.

Then we took the party to the barn.

My grandson (with the hat) rocked the reception
with his unique style of dance.

It is a Turkish custom to have fireworks at a wedding.

It was a magical evening.

This is our family (missing our son Collin).
The extended tribe (my siblings and their descendants)
present numbered 39. There were gaps here and there.
We cherish time together and relished the gift.

With the help of Facebook and texting, my kids and their cousins
are much closer than my generation was with ours.
It is a delight to see their friendships deepen.

2014 will forever be the summer of Emma’s wedding.

My photographer brother’s photos.

Link to the magnificent photographer’s pictures.
(She shoots film.)

The Education of Henry Adams

Posted on August 29, 2014 by alivingpencil

“What one knows is, in youth, of little moment;
they know enough, who know how to learn.”

The reader is subject to serial passions. One series is a fascination with the Adams family. After reading about John Adams, Abigail Adams, John and Abigail’s marriage, John Quincy Adams — the reader took up The Education of Henry Adams. This was not her first attempt, but she was determined to see it through to the end. It took great determination; at the end of Disc 16, she let out a whoop of relief.

Henry Adams was a lifetime learner, an attribute that caused a small measure of affinity between the reader and the subject of the book. (The reader shall be named Lifetime Learner Carol, or LLC.) Adams scorned his formal education in Quincy and at Harvard College, claiming he learned more through travel, studies abroad, friends and mentors. He called this learning “an accidental education.”

Some parts interested LLC: the view of the War Between the States from England; his perspective on Henry Cabot Lodge and Teddy Roosevelt; his opinion of politics, the extensive travels. Other parts, e.g. conflict between Lord Palmerston and Earl Russell, were snoozers. LLC lacked the mental agility to follow the philosophy of the Unity and the Multiplicity. How a man who was a Darwinian for fun, inclined towards anarchy, became enamored with the Virgin Mary…that confused LLC. The distance in thought between John Adams and his great-grandson Henry Adams — more confusion.

Henry Adams omits twenty years of his education, the most painful span of his life. In those decades he married his wife Clover; twelve years later she, in a bout of depression, committed suicide. Some are aghast that Adams does not mention his wife, but LLC believes the omission is consistent the clinical tone of the book.

Adams closes the book, writing about 1905, “For the first time in fifteen hundred years a true Roman pax was in sight…” Tragically, the twentieth century was the least peaceful period of history.

One element is memorable: Henry Adams writes his autobiography in the third person. LLC decided to mimic Henry in this review. If one wants to glean the pithy quotes, one does not need to read 505 pages or listen to 16 discs; look here or here or here.

LLC finds that one book completed yields two books to finish: Henry Adams’ Mont Saint-Michel and Chartres (and then it is good-bye Henry!) and David McCullough’s The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris (but McCullough is always a hello!).

(photograph of her husband taken by Marian “Clover” Hooper Adams, 1883)

Ode to Toe

Posted on May 13, 2014 by alivingpencil

A month ago, I broke my toe.
The one most dinky, my little left pinkie.

It made me *YOWL!* tilt back and howl,
The searing pain refused to wane.

The toe, it grew, turned black and blue,
Those near it blushed like a tattoo.

But hey! today—this sumptuous day—
My husband-coach, who knows my way,
Mapped out ONE mile for my assay.

“And then,” he warned, brooking no scorn,
“Put it on ice.” I did. But, yikes!
This coldness is not paradise.

I’m not inclined to sittin’ and mopin’,
Just glad to take some ibuprofen.
The dried-off toe is elevated,
May healing thus be accelerated.

Thank you for hearing my tale of woe.
I hope you will be quick to know
The main moral, most apropos:
Try never, NEVER, to break your toe.

Thankful, Spring Edition

Posted on April 23, 2014 by alivingpencil

Thanks givings aren’t just for November. Here is one I wrote in the spring of 2009.

A Living Pencil

Fair sunshine and small flecks of green,
revealing treasures in the ground,
an opened window, freshened air,
the deep inhaling of this grace.

Sorrow distilled,
ache and agony
poured in one vessel,
yearning for relief;
You who gather tears in a bottle,
hear our prayer.

For reunions in the produce section,
full-exposure answers to politely worded questions,
so satisfying an exchange
that we wonder why
we ever let our friendship
drift…

For a cataract of books,
flooding my shelves,
swamping my senses.
I splash
and sing
and scoop them up,
drenched in delight,
mesmerized by the mist
of so many nourishing words.

Balsamic vinegar,
fresh-squeezed lime,
tangy smooth yogurt,
crumbled cashews,
aroma of cilantro,
pan-fried asparagus,
savory lamb,
sweet oranges,
a cup of cold water.

For a well-placed chord or two,
a progression that knocks down
any preconceived notions,
a new way of hearing
a familiar tune.

For nicknames and

View original post 101 more words

The Long Cord

Posted on March 4, 2014 by alivingpencil

It was 1983. I was staying home for the first time in my life, bringing up baby. We had one phone, attached to the wall. When you talked on the phone you were limited to, um, talking on the phone. Your options were sitting or standing.

It was BIG excitement to get a long cord! Now I could clear the table, pick up toys AND talk on the phone. There were daily calls with Kathi, another young mom. Our conversations ranged from our son’s latest schedule change to the man who picked his nose—and studied the results—during church to Gorky Park to Jazzercise.

Through the phone my oldest sister walked me through the dilemmas of motherhood and listened with patience and delight to my momentous pronouncements. He stared at me for two minutes without blinking! Like my lunches with my mom when I was in kindergarten, I had a need to narrate the current events of my life, give my commentary, consider and then demolish any imaginary criticism. When my thoughts had been downloaded, when I had been heard, we could comfortably end the conversation.

That cord would s-t-r-e-t-c-h almost to the kitchen sink. I learned to station the diaper bag within range so the conversation could carry on amidst messy diaper changes.

When I hung the phone up, the long cord spiraled into a double helix.

55 Photographs

Posted on September 2, 2012 by alivingpencil

Sherry was kind enough to be born exactly three months before me.
Her annual celebrations give me great ideas, which, alas, I seldom do.
But, this year, I believe I will follow through on several 55 lists.
It’s not my birthday today, but September is my birthday month.

Let’s start with 55 Photographs.
Oh, the places you will go!
One benefit of coming from a large, spread out family is that you just have to visit your people.
Here are 55 cherished memories.
I took each photo and would appreciate you asking before you download.

1. Sunrise at Atlantic Beach, North Carolina

2. Iona Abbey, Scotland

3. Iona, Scotland

4. Baldy Lake, Oregon

5. Imler, Pennsylvania

6. La Grande, Oregon

7. Pike Place Market, Seattle, Washington

8. Country Bible Church, Whitman County, Washington

9. Duart Castle, Isle of Mull, Scotland

10. Richland, Oregon

11. York, England

12. Casco Bay, Maine

13. Moscow, Idaho

14. Columbia River, Boardman, Oregon

15. Snake River near Richland, Oregon

16. Sebago, Maine

17. Cumberland, Maine

18. Lostine Canyon, Oregon

19. Enterprise, Oregon

20. Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, Burns, Oregon

21. Mt. Shasta, as seen from Klamath Falls, Oregon

22. Imnaha, Oregon

23. Blue Ridge, Georgia

24. Franklin, Tennessee

25. Joseph Canyon, Oregon

26. Grande Ronde Valley, Oregon

27. Troy, Idaho

28. Rattlesnake Highway, Oregon

29. Chicago, Illinois

30. University of Chicago

31. Baraboo, Wisconsin

32. Lombard, Illinois

33. Wallowa, Oregon

34. Cary, North Carolina

35. Potlatch, Idaho

36. Baker City, Oregon

37. Haines, Oregon

38. La Grande, Oregon

39. Glamis Castle, Angus, Scotland

40. Outside Jasper, Alberta

41. Bridge of Sighs, Oxford, England

42. Lower British Columbia

43. On the way to Banff

44. Crowsnest Pass, Alberta

45. Columbia Icefields, Alberta

46. Lake Pend Oreille, Sandpoint, Idaho

47. Seattle, Washington

48. Wildlife crossing on way to Banff

49. Southern Washington

50. Approaching Baker City, Oregon

51. High Valley, Alberta

52. Alberta prairie

53. Joseph, Oregon

54. Haines, Oregon

55. Home

Flush

Posted on May 22, 2012 by alivingpencil

There is a new trend. It is rapidly rising within airport bathrooms. I blush to tell you that many do not flush the toilet.

It is anecdotal evidence, but on Monday—across the country—four out of four toilets needed a cleansing flush before use. Ever the cultural analyst, I’ve been swishing this trend around my head. Why no flush?

1. No time. Not one second to lose! Onward! She wants the front of the line at the baggage carousel, the prime seat at the gate…to hurry up and wait.

2. Conscientious objector. Some folks oppose the draft. Others oppose the drift of water down the pipes. It is the public expression of this conviction to which I object.

3. Dayists. They believe you should only flush on Thursdays.

4. Phobias. There is a fear of flushing. A fear of centrifugal force. The fear of drought. Fear of sudden loud noises. Fear of tight places. There is a lion in the pipes.

5. Temporary blindness. None is so blind who will not see. Have you ever heard of acute-onset macular degeneration? There is no looking back.

6. Mild dementia. An entire generation of boomers find the sequence of sit-stand-flush-leave confusing. These are the gentle souls who gaze at the mirror wondering why they came to this spot, with a strong suspicion there is something they forgot. Yes, snowflake, there is.

7. Technical assumptions. Not every potty is a smart potty. Not every smart potty is that smart.

8. Pigishness. Not to put down swine, but some folk are that way.

There is no easy way to arrest this stagnation. If love covers a multitude of sins, then courtesy flushes when others don’t.

Motherless Daughters

Posted on August 22, 2009 by alivingpencil

By 1996 I was certain sure I had made peace with grief. Sorrow was a sealed file with the words RESOLVED stamped on the front. I had been “moving on”, as they say, for decades.

Suddenly, with the stealth of a B-2 bomber, grief pounced and hijacked me. While I was held hostage, facing my familiar adversary, I had the sense of confusion and disbelief: This cannot be happening to me. It seemed surreal, disconnected, in short, unbelievable.

It was in that context of confused ongoing mourning that I first read Motherless Daughters.

My mother-in-law wanted to help; she gave me this book with the hesitant hope that it might give me something she herself couldn’t give. I planted myself in the small bathroom at 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday night and started reading. By 4:00 a.m. I had finished the book, exhausted, soggy, numb, and emotionally done-in.

When Hope Edelman wrote about experiences, emotions and situations that I knew firsthand in my soul but had never spoken aloud, it could only be described as cathartic. Edelman gave me words to articulate the sorrow and, more than anything, helped me to understand the nature of grief. The first chapter, The Seasons of Grieving, is the best concise summary of grief that I have ever read.

I recently revisited Hope’s narrative. I was surprised to see statements I’ve been saying so long that I thought they were my very own. The words of the first chapter are still powerful and continue to resonate in my soul. Back in 1996, they reassured me that I wasn’t some freak of nature who refused to “get over it.”

Having said that, I found the predominant value of this book much more in its diagnosis than in its therapy.

Quotes to copy:

Like most other families that lose a mother, mine coped as best it could, which meant, essentially, that we avoided all discussion of the loss and pretended to pick up exactly where we’d left off.

“My mother died when I was nineteen,” [Anna] Quindlen wrote. “For a long time, it was all you needed to know about me, a kind of vest-pocket description of my emotional complexion: ‘Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes–I have long brown hair, am on the short side, have on a red coat, and my mother died when I was nineteen.'”

Ten years ago I was convinced I’d finished mourning my mother. The truth was, I’d barely begun.

Edelman describes a random incident years after her mother’s death where she is balled up in physical pain, clutching her stomach. She had thought she had sailed through the five stages of death and moved on. I had a similar moment when, as if lightening from heaven, I was struck, pierced, skewered, with overwhelming grief. I thought I was well-adjusted, “normal” and that everything was copacetic. For no discernable reason (I mean the timing of the episode) I was brought to my knees, in tears, and incapable of articulating anything but deep, deep pain. I ended up in a seldom-used restroom in our church, gasping for air, howling in anguish. Someone got my husband and told him to go in and check on me.

Here’s what I’ve learned about grief since then: It’s not linear. It’s not predictable. It’s anything but smooth and self-contained. Someone did us all a grave injustice by first implying that mourning has a distinct beginning, middle, and end. That’s the stuff of short fiction. It’s not real life.

Grief goes in cycles, like the seasons, like the moon. No one is better created to understand this than a woman, whose bodily existence is marked by a monthly rhythm for more than half her life.

What Raspberries Teach Me About Life

Posted on July 23, 2009 by alivingpencil

raspberries

Last night I futzed in the garden: a little tomato trimming, a little beet thinning, a little raspberry picking. I had intended to begin (again) listening to War and Peace, but both my iPod and MP3 needed charging.

Well, I thought, I guess I’ll just think. I don’t know why, but when I think in the garden I get all philosophical. Not like Kierkegaard or Kant: just some elementary, didactic, flannel-graph object lessons.

Here’s what I thought, just to prove that anyone could write those little Everything I Need to Know books.

What Raspberries Teach Me About Life

1. The best position is to bend down low and look up.

2. Stretching beyond your reach is worth it.

3. Don’t be afraid of of a few scratches.

4. Work is its own reward, but a fresh raspberry popped in the mouth is a bonus.

5. The dried up raspberries represent lost opportunities. Don’t despair. Keep moving. Every life has *bushels* of lost opportunities. Pluck them off and feed them to the dog.

6. One can’t overstate the benefit of looking at a situation from many different angles. Both sides now.

7. Even when you are certain you’ve picked every ripe raspberry –even then– there’s always more jewels waiting to be found.

8. Corollary: another person will be able to see what you can’t.

9. Cultivating raspberries, which are essentially a weed, requires no great skill. God made the plants, sent the sun, gave the rain. The fruit is a gift.

10. Early risers have moral high ground; sunset, however, is a superlative harvest setting.

11. Raspberries mature at different rates from others in the same cluster. When they reach fruition, they are sweet, regardless if they are early or late. Like people.

12. Ripe berries don’t need to be persuaded. The softest touch and they are ready to leave! If the berry resists, wait. A little time, a little sun, a little water, a little patience. The readiness is all.