Daily beauty

Celebrations

A girl's first loaf of artisan bread.

A college girl's harvest of home to bring along for another quarter away.

A mother's first attempt at homemade pasta.

A dear friend's baptism.

In big moments and small, we are celebrating.

The Friday Clive

"Scenes and characters from books provide them (the literary) with a sort of iconography by which they interpret or sum up their own experience."

The Fab Five

Family celebration

We had intended to have a nice family dinner last Monday in celebration of Madelaine's return for spring break and in honor of the boys' accomplishments at the latest debate tournament, but Mom's recent trip to the E.R. preempted our special event. So, I threw the cooked lamb into the freezer, hoping that I could figure out a way to reheat it without over-cooking it. At long last we were able to reschedule for last night.

Yes, we popped a little bubbly, and we had a terrific salad, my grandmother's yeast roll recipe, a sadly over-cooked but still yummy leg of lamb, and piles of golden mashed potatoes. Add a pear and plum galette for dessert and we were all happy and full.

With everyone home and the spring light so perfect in the front yard, I wanted to get some pictures. It became a bit crazy, but that's half the fun.

Muscle flexing and manly aggression finally gave way to my handsome men.

The girls were fine and lovely and composed until ....

I came along, and then things quickly descended into blurred hilarity.
I do love having both of my girls home.
Sigh.




Happy parents with everyone home.

Happy Spring

Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)

The Year's Awakening

How do you know that the pilgrim track
Along the belting zodiac
Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds
Is traced by now to the Fishes' bounds
And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud
Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud,
And never as yet a tinct of spring
Has shown in in the Earth's apparelling;

O vespering bird, how do you know,

How do you know?

How do you know, deep underground,
Hid in your bed from sight and sound,
Without a turn in the temperature,
With weather life can scarce endure,
That light has won a fraction's strength,
And day put on some moments' length,
Whereof in merest rote will come,
Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb,

O crocus root, how do you know,

How do you know?

Poem found in The Four Seasons, a volume from the Everyman's Library Pocket Poets series. With familiar and less familiar poems, this is a beautiful volume that fits perfectly in the hand. Highly recommended.

HT: I found this book thanks to Tonia.

March madness is serious business around here

We hang our brackets on the same cord where we hang the Christmas stockings...if that gives you a clue as to how much we love March Madness in our home. Brackets are serious business, and we boldly gloat over wins and cry in agony over losses.

The first time I even heard about this March Madness NCAA tournament thingy was in 1987. We'd been married for a year, and suddenly John's granny was very, very ill. We raced to her house in Modesto and I sat by her bedside all night. I would begin to nod off to sleep, but then suddenly she would take a really, really long time between breaths; I tell you, that "between breaths" silence woke me up faster than a brass band would have. In the midst of the granny drama, I noticed that "the game" John's dad was watching was "still on." ESPN may have begun broadcasting in 1979, but I was still quite naive about the reality of twenty-four hour sports programming. Until I started waking up enough to see that the teams were changing uniforms, it didn't occur to me that this was a tournament. Like I said, I was naive.

Then there were two years in a row (maybe 1993 and 1994?) when my husband truly and honestly got the flu during the first two days of the NCAA tournament. He was able to moan on the couch while the games just kept coming hand-over-fist. It was a blissful way to pass the time for a sick guy, and in those days I got hooked.

Now I have three boys who love basketball, and two daughters who are willing to play along. Some of the family are serious students of the players, coaches and teams. Some of us are stuck in the, "Well, the Bullers live in Spokane, so let's go with Gonzaga" methodology. And some of us are just plain annoyingly lucky. Why does the daughter who couldn't care less always have the best bracket? Argh. I am still hopeful, though; if Kentucky loses soon, I could still beat her. And that would be sweet.

For the record: if I lived a different life, one that involved sending the children off to school each day, I would glue my eyes to my mother's television and watch every bounce, swish, and block. In my much more responsible life, I wait until my youngest has done at least two hours of work and then watch with him. When that is not possible, I hit refresh every fifteen seconds on my computer and give thanks for the wonder that is ESPN online.

Thursday was filled with disappointment, but Friday was sweet revenge. I have NEVER won the family bracket game, but hope springs eternal with March Madness. Maybe this year. Maybe.

Back to refreshing ESPN.

Catching up

This weekend, as three of my menfolk are camping in the Santa Cruz mountains, I plan to backtrack and write some of what has been happening around here. It has been the best of times and the worst of times, and so I need to write. It's good to have the quiet to do that.

I will be posting things down below, in some sort of chronologicalish order; scroll on down to see if there is anything new. There probably is.

I sure appreciate having a place to write, and having interesting and caring readers makes it the best kind of bonus package. Thanks for being there.

The Friday Clive

"The great thing, if one can, is to stop regarding all the unpleasant things as interruptions of one's "own," or "real" life. The truth is of course that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one's real life - the life God is sending one day by day: what one calls one's "real life" is a phantom of one's own imagination. This at least is what I see at moments of insight: but it's hard to remember it all the time."

Spring beauty

Days of joy

Last Sunday the long wait was over, and our dear college girl came home for spring break. Oh, it is good to see her. And to hear her play piano, read aloud, laugh, visit, and be her generally wonderful, at home, self. Welcome home, Madelaine!

And while Madelaine was riding forever on the Coast Starlight train toward home, these two fellas were debating their brains out. I sent them all the way to San Diego in my van without me, glad that I have friends who could fill in while I recovered from the viral mess that I have been. Oh, did I want to be there, cheering on every bit of news as we heard that they were winning and continuing on all the way to the quarter final round...which they also won! I had a dear friend who called me so I could hear the news as it was announced:

"And in the round of Auburn Wheeler/Wheeler against (Name That Opponent), the winner is........Auburn Wheeler/Wheeler!!!!" ...

and the crowd goes wwwwiiiilllldddd.

We screamed here in the privacy of our own living room like good March Madness fans. Our team, our Wheeler/Wheelers, were tearing up the tournament!!! Yahoo!

Out of 202 debaters, son Rex was the 15th place speaker, and son Zack was the 5th place speaker. Out of 101 teams, Auburn Wheeler/Wheeler came in 3rd. We were so proud, so thrilled, so delighted. Often times in life you work hard and you don't get any accolades; this time my guys did, and I am so glad. Congratulations on a job well-done, sons.

On Monday, just hours after the boys got home, I was back in the emergency room with my dear mother. Fortunately, she was not admitted; we really wanted her to be home, but she was, once again, having trouble breathing. This time it is bronchitis, on top of recovering from pneumonia. At the age of 83, I can only begin to imagine how tired she must be. She keeps telling me her warranty must be up because all her parts are giving out. Oh, to have the cheer and humor she has when hit with physical ailments over and over again. I am awed, once again, by the gift she is to me.

Cooking adventures continue

In the last week I made Hollandaise sauce for the first time, resulting in delicious Eggs Benedict (my favorite brunch entree.) It was deeply satisfying to have that sauce look and taste so....hollandaisey.

I also made a pear tart and created my own recipe for some glaze. I made it with crystallized ginger and it was the perfect blend of flavors. As silly as it sounds, it made me feel rather accomplished to come up with the idea. The humility comes with the crust, however; it was only so-so. I think I must be too rough for good pastry, and I'll have to learn to tone it down.

And I did a variation on huevos rancheros. They are basically eggs fried with salsa served on warm corn tortillas. Add a few slices of avodado and presto! Yumola. Delicious, colorful, easy breakfast in less than five minutes.

I also made, and forgot to photograph, Julia Child's coq au vin. Wow. Another thick and tasty sauce made out of oodles of wine. It was a winner, and I will make it again. But next time I will take a picture of its perfection.

The hours after we returned

Our time at the beach, as I have already posted, was heavenly, but life took a rather rapid turn as soon as we got home, as I have also vaguely mentioned. Being the wordy person that I am, I am feeling the need to plunk out in more detail the dark night of February 28th. It helps me understand why I have been so weary, and it fills me with gratitude for life and breath and God at work. Be patient with me, dear friends. This is a season of processing for me.

So, back to February 28th. Within minutes of returning home from our debate triumphs and beach bliss, I realized Mom was not feeling well, and within an hour of pulling in the driveway I was pulling out again to take her to the emergency room. It was a terrifying seven-minute drive, seeing how hard it was for her to breathe. When we got her in to an E.R. room, it became very clear very quickly that this was extremely serious. Eventually one of the nurses quietly asked me if Mom had any other family in the area, and I mentioned my husband and children; he was kind enough to suggest that they should hurry in if they wanted to say goodbye. I called my husband, he called Mom's priest, and we prepared for the worst.

I was glad to have about thirty minutes alone with Mom; the staff had done what they could, and they let us be. She was not conscious, and so I just rested my head on the pillow next to her. I let my tears fall, and I thought of all the things I had yet to ask her; I knew in those moments that I would never be "ready" to have her gone.

Eventually my family got there, and we spent some quiet moments around Mom's bed. She was stable yet unresponsive, so it was extra-sweet to have my family with me. When the priest arrived, the kids and John left to give space and quiet for him. We were all set to pray when Kent said, "Oh, look! Your Mom recognizes me." Yep, at that moment Mom was "back." She smiled tiredly, and began to perk up. Kent prayed with us, telling us that he fully expected to see Mom in church in a few weeks; he reassured me that he would be happy to come any time and pray whenever needed. I was grateful for his priestly presence, and so thrilled that he was there for the moment when we knew she was on the mend.

She spent five days in the hospital getting treatment for pneumonia and for her stressed out heart. She remembers nothing about the first hour of the hospital; she only remembers seeing her priest and wondering what he was doing there. No white lights in tunnels, no dramatic stories to tell us; instead, she is the one asking for me to fill in the gaps and let her know what happened when she was "gone."

I will never forget the drive to the hospital (and I will call 911 next time.) I will always remember resting my head next to Mom's, knowing it could be the last time I saw her alive. What an amazingly intense and marvelous thing it is to journey with someone toward eternity. It splits my heart right open, and that is just where I want to be.

Every day is a gift. Every breath is a gift. Every single one. As tough as this is, I would not trade my days for anything. Losing sleep, making bad decisions, worrying and trying not to worry, arguing with Medicare, missing out on a lot of things because I need to be here; all of that pales in comparison to the honor and joy it is to be living next door to my mother, loving her through these frightening and tiring days. This is right where I belong.

Last Sunday

Debate was over and we headed north on my old commuter route. As has happened before, I found myself exiting the freeway and heading west toward the coast that used to be my home. The pull of the ocean is strong in my soul.

We stopped only for burritos and cokes. What more could we need?

Plenty of beauty and relaxation.

An accidental album cover shot, to be stored for when needed.

It was a beautiful Sunday.

Briefly (again)

Mama is HOME!

Almighty God, we entrust all who are dear to us to thy never-failing care and love, for this life and the life to come, knowing that Thou art doing for them better things than we can desire or pray for; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

(Book of Common Prayer)

Comfort reading

Brother Cadfael's Penance

"Brother Cadfael was standing in the middle of his walled herb-garden, looking pensively about him at the autumnal visage of his pleasance, where all things grew gaunt, wiry and sombre. Most of the leaves were fallen, the stems dark and clenched like fleshless fingers holding fast to the remnant of the summer, all the fragrances gathered into one scent of age and decline, still sweet, but with the damp, rotting sweetness of harvest over and decay setting in. It was not yet very cold, the mild melancholy of November still had lingering gold in it, in falling leaves and slanting amber light. All the apples were in the loft, all the corn milled, the hay long stacked, the sheep turned into the stubble fields. A time to pause, to look round, to make sure nothing had been neglected, no fence unrepaired, against the winter.

He had never been quite so acutely aware of the particular quality and function of November, its ripeness and its hushed sadness. The year proceeds not in a straight line through the seasons, but in a circle that brings the world and man back to the dimness and mystery in which both began, and out of which a new seed-time and a new generation are about to begin. Old men, thought Cadfael, believe in that new beginning, but experience only the ending. It may be that God is reminding me that I am approaching my November. Well, why regret it? November has beauty, has seen the harvest into the barns, even laid by next year's seed. No need to fret about not being allowed to stay and sow it, someone else will do that. So go contentedly into the earth with the moist, gentle, skeletal leaves, worn to cobweb fragility, like the skins of very old men, that bruise and stain at the mere brushing of the breeze, and flower into brown blotches as the leaves into rotting gold. The colours of late autumn are the colours of the sunset: the farewell of the year and the farewell of the day. And of the life of man? Well, if it ends in a flourish of gold, that is no bad ending."

If you have not read any of the Brother Cadfael mysteries, I highly recommend you start from the beginning (The Holy Thief) and read through the series. You'll want all the historical and character background before you fall into this gem.


***Added later: I stand corrected: Book One of the Cadfael series is A Morbid Taste for Bones.***

Very briefly

Mom is recovering well. She is scheduled to come home this afternoon. We are thrilled.

I've been sick as a dog all week, so I haven't been to the hospital since Tuesday morning. It's a good week to have driving children and a loving family.

More soon.

My mothers' laugh....

There's big news around here.

My sons were the 5th placed team at a debate tournament this weekend.

We got to dig our toes into the sands of the beach.

And when we got home it all came to a halt when I had to rush my mother to the hospital. She was short of breath, and it got very serious very quickly. They told me there was a chance she would not make it long enough to even get to a regular hospital room. They urged me to have my family come in, and they did. I called her priest, as I had promised I would. But slowly she rallied. She was more aware. She was back.

And this morning she called laughing, asking if I had her teeth. My mother's laugh is the best sound in the world, and last night at 9:00 I thought I would not have the privilege of hearing it again. What an amazing gift.

I am off to deliver the goods and to hear more from the doctors about what is going on with my dear, wonderful mother.

More later on The Mom Update and all that debate/sand news.