Beginning to Look

I am not sure it is Christmas for me until the tunes are on. I have my favorites of course, and then there are the songs that annoy and irritate more than get one in the mood. But, Christmas and music are the must do coupling before THE SPIRIT arrives for me.

I remember putting the LP's onto the turntable and carefully placing the needle into the first groove. And then came the scratches and the pops and underneath all of that the magical sounds of Christmas tunes. Ah, me, the memories. I could, and did, sing along for hours.

So, lights, candles, music, it's all happening here. What is helping you set the stage for the Christmas groove?

Sing it out to me, baby.

Music Monday hosted at Soccer Mom in Denial

Listen for Awhile

It's Music Monday, friends. Visit Soccer Mom in Denial for more.

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When I was eight years old, I remember sitting, delicately perched, at the end of the piano bench as my mother played, and learning every word to Killing Me Softly made popular by Roberta Flack. In 1974 I was far too young to really understand the nuance of the lyrics but I loved singing alongside my mom as she worked through the melody and we sang out a life in the words. That's a song that kind of sticks with you.

This is another one.

I was directed to this piece by a good (amazing, kind, beautiful, wonderful, compassionate, incredible+) friend the other day. As I googled it and found both lyrics and video for this tune, I was stunned and overwhelmed. Someone was singing my life with her words. Suddenly, every passion that Ms. Flack had ever embedded in the words she sang in her tune in that 70's hit, made perfect sense to me. Clear and perfect sense.

(This is the moment in time wherein you label me as a maudlin, sappy, idealistic and overly romantic little girl, and I will wear that badge proudly, because at my core I know I am all that and I am okay with it. Really.)

Hold me love, you know I can't sleep again
You know I have to kiss your lips-
I wanna lay here next to you

I remember walking in the rain
Rain was falling on my hands
I don't wanna live through that again, love.

Outside it hardly gets dark now
Lovers walking in the park now
Children singing songs that
Will now make all our dreams come true
I'm in love with you

I know it takes love
Love is a healing thing
When you give everything
You're loving the world
The world gives you love to hold onto
Remember who, when summer is over

Just give me many chances
I'll see you through it all
Just give me time to learn to crawl

In September, when the rains come,
and the wind blows, I will see you walking in your coat,
And if you let me, I will keep you here inside the stars
I will love the sound of my sheets
Since you have moved beneath them

Just give me many chances
I'll see you through it all
Just give me time to learn to crawl*

Written and originally recorded by Rickie Lee Jones, the following video was recorded by Jasmine Whenham. (I like it best of all that I could find on Youtube) It touches me in ways I can hardly explain. So, if you have a quiet minute to get carried away, by all means press play.

I know it takes love.

*RICKIE LEE JONES Stewart's Coat

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+ The friend of whom I speak is our guest today at Looking Into.

Please pop over and say a little something to her. It's worth the trip click.

I promise.

Generally, You'll Find Me Barefoot

As both a child and a teenager I traveled a lot with the dance company I trained and performed with. Most of that performing was what I would deem local, as in traveling within the state where we were based. Occasionally, that traveling took us to world wide venues, you know, like all the way to Canada. When I was sixteen the horizons expanded to this side of the pond as the company ventured forth to a Dance and the Child conference in Stockholm, Sweden. It was my first trip to the cultured and refined continent of Europe and I was smitten in every sense of the word. To me, it felt like every day I was waking and walking in storybook land, and I was utterly, helplessly in love with every moment of the experience.

We stayed (as only a company of 75 dancers under age 18 and their chaperones can likely afford) in youth hostels and the like throughout our trip. In Stockholm, the hostel was a decent distance from the Balletschool where we were in class and rehearsals each day which required a lengthy walk to and from the location morning and evening.

In between rehearsals and workshops and performances there was sightseeing for the group as a whole. In between the sightseeing there was sometimes some down time for all of us to explore or rest or play gin rummy and roll each other's hair in curlers. Whatever.

One particular afternoon with some down time on my hands I went for a walk. It was a lovely day and I was particularly longing to spend some time exploring by myself. I donned my shoes and began my adventure. I hadn't wandered very far from the hostel, when I encountered two (or was it three?) harmless looking young guys hanging out behind the hostel.

"Hallo." They said to me.
"Uh, hi." I said.
"You want to buy some shoes?"
"Huh? Some what? Did you say shoes?"
"Yes. You know... some shuuuus." One boy pantomimed inhaling a cigarette, you know of the funny kind, and then added:
"Make you feel good."

So, picture me, attempting to take this in, and while picturing thusly remember who I am, where I am from, and under which strict religiously conservative culture I was raised, and then try to stop laughing as you imagine me very ungraciously declaring that "NO! I DON'T WANT ANY SHOES! NO SHOES! NEVER!! NOOOOO SHUUUUUUUSSSS!"

And ran.

Away.

Fast.

With my shoes on.

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Flashback Friday is hosted by 42.
Go, look, reminisce. Participate.

Brazen

"Mommmy! Mommy! Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahmmmmeeeeeeeeee! Sam and Susie are stuck together in the front yard and we can't get them apart!"

That was the announcement we made to my mother on that sunny afternoon of my childhood.

Sam was our muttish dog, a Beagle and Dachshund mix. Susie was the AKC registered Shelty of our neighbors whose pride and glory was their prize winning dogs. Susie was the youngest among them and the prettiest. Susie was, of course, also in heat. The neighbors had come specifically to ask that Sam be kept away from their yard during this time. My parents complied and when Sam was outside our home he was tied to a lead which was tethered to a stake near the porch.

On this day, Susie came to him. She had dug deeply enough under the chain link fence of her yard to wiggle through and run free. And she ran straight to Sam. And there they were, the two of them, doing IT in our front yard.

Of course, I was young enough and innocent (oh, so innocent) enough to have no clue what was happening. The action elited a lot of discussion amongst my neighborhood friends. We told them to stop! We told them to let go! We told them it wasn't right to be stuck together like that! And then we told my mom.

She of course was at a complete loss as to what to do about it all as well. I mean there it was, a full public display of affection happening in her front yard for all the world to see. And there we were, a half dozen kids with wide eyes and inquiring minds asking the hard questions to a Mama who just. didn't. know. what. to. say.

She turned to my Dad by telephone. First reaching my Uncle Steve who worked alongside my Pop, she blurted out the news: "The dogs are stuck together on the front lawn! What do I do? What do I do?" My uncle's reaction was to double up in red-faced laughter and because he was unable to speak through the roaring guffaws he held out the receiver to my Dad. Daddy picked up the phone to hear the same panic report and with a somewhat subdued giggle in his voice gave the best advice he could muster at the moment: "Honey, pull up a chair and watch!"

Not long after that day, my parents sat me down and I got to hear all about the birds and the bees.

And the dogs.

Something to Count On

It was a metal box.

I can still see it in my memory, sitting there on the front porch. The logo from the neighborhood dairy emblazoned upon the front panel. When the lid was lifted the thin metal would bow and wobble just the tiniest bit. And when the lid was dropped? There was a satisfactory clang as the top slapped the squared edges of the box and jangled back into place.

It was our milk box.

Lid open--little wobble.
An evening chore to place the empty glass bottles inside; the box's inner metal rack holding them tightly. Six bottles standing at attention.
Lid closed--clang.

Lid open--little wobble.
An early morning discovery of bottles full; foil tops pressed and sealed onto the narrow rim. A careful lift and carry to bring the newly delivered milk into the house, bottles nestled on the refrigerator's shelves.
Lid closed--clang.

Every week it was the same; empty bottles in the evening, full bottles next morning.

Fresh milk delivered.

To the top step of my porch.

In a metal box.

15 Summer Fun Moments

Apparently, yesterday was the FIRST DAY OF SUMMER. Also quite apparent is the fact that the weather gods of The Netherlands didn't get the memo. Our area of the country ushered in summer with an all day rainstorm, complete with thunder bursts, which followed nearly a week of rain. And before that, there was a little rain. And cooler temps than what my brain equates with the advent of summer.

To be fair, if there is balance to these kinds of things, we were due for a little cool down and some rain. We've had a gloriously, untypically warm spring in Holland. I have many days of sun kissed skin as proof, and the camera is full of photos of the kids on the beach. That it all happened BEFORE summer's official start is a bonus I suppose. And you won't hear me complaining about those shots of sun we've had already, and are sure to come again.

However, the gods of the Friday Fifteen have suggested a themed entry this week and because summer is on the minds of all y'all whose summers have already begun, I will do my best to comply.
With the rain falling in earnest outside I will share some of my favorite summer sun moments, past and present. Further, because I am an optimist, I will share what the summer fun just may bring us in future!

PAST

(my past)

1. A single quarter in my pocket and a walk to Winder Dairy just a few blocks from our home. My eight-year-old self giddy with excitement as I stepped into the small air-conditioned store ready to spend my money. What would I choose? Popsicle Bullet with its 3 flavors of ice? Creamsicle with orange outside and creamy vanilla tucked in? Or a chocolaty-yummy Fudgesicle?
Mmmm.... Summer delicious on a stick!

2. Slip and Slide in the backyard. After two trips down the plastic stretched out on the lawn, my belly is sore from launching full force down the slide, and my legs covered in grassy bits picked up from the yard. And the air is filled with laughter!

3. Our Ambassador station wagon stuffed to its limits with neighborhood kids, on our way to Fairmount Pool, where the admission was free if you were with an adult. It didn't seem odd that my parents had 12 kids? Oh, no. This was Utah!

4. Early morning rise to fill the canteens, the knapsacks, and slather the sunscreen. Our family hike to the tip of Mount Olympus in Salt Lake City, will take us all day and will be a family victory at the top, each of us signing our name on the postcards, inserting them into the mailbox on the uppermost peak. Jennie was here!

5. A single rope swing, attached to a giant tree of unknown variety. Wrapping legs and arms around the rope, while cousins and brothers launch me outward over the swimmin' hole. And at the count of three, release and crash-splash into the wet for a taste of ice cold pond water. Whee!

PRESENT

(recent past with kids)

6. Finishing up an afternoon splash in the pool with Ian and Emma. Stepping out of the water and toweling down, changing clothes to return to our apartment for afternoon napping. Two-year-old Emma says "Just a minute, I want to do something" then strips the water wings from her arms, jumps from the side back into the water, and.... SWIMS! Emma swims? My baby swims! Who needs those silly things on your arms anyway?

7. Sweating on the sidelines as Ian runs the field, chasing a soccer ball. His Great-Grandpa cheering as loudly as any other at the game. impressed by the stamina of the kids on the pitch. He will forever ask Ian after this game, "How's it going with your soccer, son?"

8. Introducing 2-month old baby Andrew to the backyard pool at our Arizona home. Clad in the tiniest set of swim shorts seen on the planet, I carry this wide-eyed boy into the water first letting it tickle his toes and then seep upwards on his legs until he is immersed in the warmth to his belly button. Snuggling tightly in my arms, he looks up at me and grins.

9. Preparing for what will be my final concert with my students before we move to Holland, I host a backyard tie-dye and swim party. The shirts these kids make will be part of their costumes at the dance performance. And the swimming seems the best way to wash off after coloring our skin with the vibrant dyes. Oh, and the laughter and memories? Yeah, that's good too.

10. Packing the towels, the snacks, the sunscreen, and the juice boxes into the beach bag and schlepping all of that and three kids to Sun Splash water park. There we meet my cousin with 3 of her 6 kids for an unforgettable afternoon of water, sun and fun.

FUTURE

(what the summer is sure to bring us this year)

11. Bike rides to Kijkduin beach. Sand sculptures, buried toes, shell-finding treasure searches.

12. Summer sunsets over the ocean. Toasting the end of the day at a boardwalk restaurant.

13. Exploring the air conditioned insides of The Hague's art museums, for when the summer heat does arrive.

14. A road trip when my parents come, through Luxembourg, toward the Alps. A stay in Praz sur Arly for holiday fun.

15. Photographs. Lots of them. And memories.

You've Gotta Have Heart

Recently written and published as part of The Blog Exchange, this month. I post this piece again in honor of my Father on Father's Day, and for his ease in finding it, right here on the front page of my blog!

"My Pa can light my room at night
With just his being near
And make a fearful dream all right
By grinning ear to ear...

When I was a little girl, and would wake with a nightmare start, tears streaming and little shoulders shaking, my dad would walk me through a middle-of-the-night ritual. It always began with a story about the "little man" who lived inside my head, in a neighborhood called The Saab Konchus. While I slumbered the night away, this little man, who was inconceivably, unbelievably bored, would wander through the corridors of my brain kicking open doors as he passed them. Behind the doors is where my thoughts and ideas were stored. Most of the time, when the doors were opened, lovely thoughts fluttered out; flowers and butterflies and dancing faerie kind of ideas. However, sometimes, when little kicking man popped a door open, behind it would be scary things. Ugly things. Bad things. Things from which NIGHTMARES are made. The doors would fly open and the stuff would fly out. That is when I would wake up crying. And my dad would be there, always, ready to sprinkle "magic whiffle dust" into my ears. Whiffle dust had the power to make the door close on the bad things, and I could sleep again without fear. I loved whiffle dust being sprinkled in my ears. I still believe I could actually feel its enchantment working as it settled inside my brain. I remember its very real effects even though whiffle dust itself is an unseen substance without texture, weight or smell. Magic is what it was, pure and simple daddy magic.

My Pa can do most anything
He sets his mind to do
He'd even move a mountain
If he really wanted to...

When I was 20 years old, residing and adventuring a long way from home, I got a post-card from my parents who were traveling in Texas at the time. It was a short announcement that they were considering leaving Utah and moving to that "whole 'nother country" down south. I could not have been more shocked than if they had told me the planet Mars had just started a subdivision and they had decided to purchase a spec house. Texas? But we were lifetime UTAHNS! What in the world was my pop thinking?

He swears by the fact, that it was not thought at all which led them to Texas. Rather it was feeling. Logically, it made no sense, since they didn't have a job, a home, or even prospects in Texas. However, as he tells it, he could not have felt more called to make the move. Therefore, they did. After a near lifetime in the Beehive State, where they had practically completed raising six kids, they sold the businesses, packed their possessions and relocated in the Lone Star State.
It was not a seamless transition but certainly, it was a worthwhile change, and my dad is the perfect model for being willing to toss it all in and voyage into something new. Yet, you may wonder where I got the gumption to move across the ocean with my husband and our kids.

My Pa can sweeten up a day
That clouds and rain make gray...

Winter in The Netherlands is one of the hardest things I have ever had to face. The heavy skies, the relentless rain and the lack of sunshine really take a toll on my psyche. In the midst of the long season this year, I confided to my dad that I was really struggling with it all. I just could not feel happy. And I was frightened. This time around, he did not produce whiffle dust to sprinkle in my ears, but something nearly as magical. In short order after our initial conversation a package arrived at my house. A light therapy box designed and marketed to help folks like me who suffer from SAD, or the winter blues if you will. It is a daily dose of sunshine in a convenient portable box. Truly, it is brilliant— all puns intended— and once again, I can credit my dad with giving me light.

And tell me funny stories
That will chase the clouds away...

The six of us grew up on my dad's stories. Imaginative adventures, starring us, the Mighty Six who, as ordinary children most of the time had the power to slip into our superhero selves at a moment's notice, just so we could save the world. Yes indeed, Rocket Man, Jet Mouse, Flash Girl, Mighty Min, Runnin' Red, and Jumpin' John could handle any situation no matter the circumstance and notwithstanding the danger. If anyone needed help, why, we were ready. We six were champions of humanity in extraordinary form!

A repeated favorite is the story he tells, complete with an affected speech pattern--his tongue stuck inside his lower lip as he speaks--about his "pet" tiger named Herbert. Oh, how I wish I could videoblog it at this very moment. I promise you would not be able to stop chortling.
This legendary tale has now reached the next generation of listeners and at every family gathering there are repeated requests for Grandpa to “puh-leeeeeaaaaze tell the Herbert story?”. It doesn't matter that we all know the punch line. The entire clan will sit stock still in rapt attention at his feet as he conveys the naughtiness of his (imaginary) pet tiger.

My Pa's the only one on Earth I can tell my troubles to
His arms are house and home to me
His face a pretty poem to me...

Pardon the repeat of a story told once already on my blog. However, no tribute to my dad would be complete without this one.
We were living in Salt Lake City, Utah and it was a summer storm. I remember grand flashes of light and tremendous rolls of thunder shocking and blasting through the sky. I was terrified. I remember trembling and howling. Big shoulder heaving sobs escaped me as I searched to find a spot where I could hide away from the chaos of the storm. My best option for refuge was to wrap myself into the full-length drapes hanging at the windows in the living room. Possibly, if I couldn’t see the lightning, I wouldn’t hear the thunder. Perhaps then, I might feel safe. That is where I was when my daddy found me; curled up and shaking, tear streaks running across my cheeks. He pulled me from my hiding place and asked me about my troubles. I am sure that what poured forth from my five-year-old self was succinct and poetic as I explained the sheer terror I was feeling on account of Mother Nature’s outdoor demonstration. I cannot recount the actual conversation we shared but I can vividly recall the feelings of the day. My dad and I sat together there in the living room; my arms wrapped around his neck, and watched the storm. I learned that day about measuring the distance of lightning by counting the seconds between the strike and the thunderclap. Counting with him was a good distraction from the tears, still perched at the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. I am sure we sat there counting for a good long time, or at least 15 minutes. Then, when the lighting and thunder show had ceased, and the rain was falling in earnest, my dad and I took a walk. A long walk in the rain together, hands joined. We walked in the rain, and we talked in the rain. Timid at first and then braver as the journey continued, I remember being amazed by just almost everything I saw. I remember getting wet—very wet—as in drenched and dripping with rainwater. It was marvelous. I do wish I could call up any actual words he said to me, as I have no doubts that they were perfect and profound as he talked to me about rain and life, teaching me things it would take me decades to fully understand. All I know is I felt strong and brave walking with my dad that day and I was no longer afraid. Not of the rain. Not of anything.

My Pa's the finest friend I ever knew
I only wish that you could know him too."*

Happy Father's Day Daddy. My heart still belongs to you.

*Barbra Streisand - My Pa
Lyrics by M. Leonard & H. Martin

15 Cool Camp Things

Today's blogging is brought to you by my daughter Emma. You may remember Emma spent last week at school camp. When she arrived home last Friday afternoon, she was, as I hoped she would be, bursting with stories and tales of the week. I had such a great time listening while she debriefed me on the week, I asked her if she would share the highlights of her camp week with you here.

And so, to Emma. Our guest blogger for the FRIDAY FIFTEEN with her list of 15 cool camp things.

1. cabins. We stayed in a cabin near the woods and sleeping there gave me a real campy feeling. We could hear birds and things.

2. talent show. It was a funny night. My friend and I sang a song and we were cracking up the whole time. Then there were about 4 or 5 guys who stood on the stage with their arms crossed over their chests and hummed. The same note. For a long time. My friend Habiba said "Maybe they're at a funeral?" and we all cracked up laughing. Later we found out they were "harmonizing". Whatever that means.

3. canoeing. But it was really hard. I got stuck in the reeds a lot.

4. raft building. We built a life size raft. It floated but I could tell all my friends were like freaking out because it was a little off balance. Everyone was wondering how we were supposed to get on the raft and then my friend Sarah and I just jumped into the water and then jumped on it and said "Hey! That could be a way!" Everyone laughed.

5. the food was good. I liked the way they served it on the tables while everyone was sitting there. It made me feel like I was at a palace.

6. bicycle riding. I was able to ride a bigger bike than I normally do. I thought it was easier to ride. The first day we went biking we got lost. We cycled 10 or 11 kilometers that time.

7. free time. We got free time after each activity and before bed. We just got to hang out and that was nice to be with my friends, but not at school, you know what I mean?

8. tag. We all played 'stuck in the mud' with the teachers. It was teachers v. kids. The teachers won.

9. hide and seek. We found all the teachers really fast except one. He was hiding in a tree. He could hear us the whole time we were looking for him. I think he thought we were pretty funny. One thing I realized at camp was how much our teachers care about us.

10. the bathrooms. The showers were not that bad!

11. fresh air. All you could smell everywhere was pure, clean, magnifico air.

12. campfire. We roasted bread and ate it with jelly. Mine got really burnt.

13. thursday activities. It was studies, and it was actually nice to do some school work, strangely enough. We studied water animals, soil, insects and animals.

14. bird watching. This was a good idea, but there wasn't a bird in sight. Just in sound. We watched dragonflies instead.

15. my group. We all stayed in the same cabin together every night. We were a talkative, talkative talkative bunch of girls. We made a lot of jokes and read scary stories, which weren't really all that scary. In my group was girls from Denmark, England, Portugal and me from the USA. You learn a lot from other people. It's just cool.

Friday Fifteen

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

I find inspiration in the old adage "big things come in small packages". I have always taken it to mean that one didn't have to be big and ahem, tall in order to make a difference. From my hardly-over-five-foot vantage point, I have taken the proverbial statement to heart.

But then again, there's that good ol' "size doesn't matter" phraseology out there and that's the one I have a little protest with.

Because it does indeed matter.

When it comes to the size of your kitchen.

I have mentioned it once or twice that a typical Dutch home follows a typical Dutch pattern. Houses tend toward the narrow and tall; just like the physique of the Dutch themselves. Our home is three stories of row house height, including two sets of narrow twisting stairs between floors. We call them the stairs of danger, but that is fodder for another post, another day. I shall make a note of it and share the story behind the moniker soon. But the house? The house has 5 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms (meaning two rooms where one can take a bath or shower), 2 toilets, a living room, a dining room and the world's tiniest kitchen. t.i.n.i.e.s.t.

Possibly that last is an exaggeration since I have been in homes here where the kitchen is so tiny it is nearly non-existent. Like an afterthought perhaps. The builders stepped back and surmised all that their hands had rendered and then hit their foreheads with a resounding thud admitting "Doh! We forgot to put in a kitchen!" And then they converted a closet.

One of our first family outings after our arrival in The Netherlands was to the city of Dordrecht, where shortly after disembarking from the train we were adopted right off the street by the sweetest Dutch Oma in the world. She asked us if we wouldn't like to walk along with her and she would show us some lovely gardens near her home. I guess we had starry eyed tourist written all over our awe smacked faces as we wandered along the street. We accepted her invitation and she chatted away in Dutch to us as we walked along the streets and alleys. It goes without saying that the prattle was nonsensical to me as she happily pointed out shops and details about her city.

As we approached her house, it became very clear that she was residing in what once was a cloister for a convent there in Dordrecht. The snatches of Dutch my husband was understanding and translating confirmed this theory for me. We wandered through the gardens which were indeed lovely and arrived at the front door of her domicile. She eagerly invited us inside for some refreshment.

Placing her skeleton key in the lock, she swung the door inward and we all filed in. Into the tiniest house in the world. t.i.n.i.e.s.t.

Her living room was possibly a 10x10 foot space, crammed with furniture--a reclining chair, an end table, a round dining table with 4 chairs, an armoire full of books, a sidebar for storage, 2 or 3 lamps, a tapestry foot stool, a wooden chest under the single window--and knick knacks stacked on every possible surface. She chatted away to us about the photos prominently displayed around the room and insisted that we make ourselves comfortable while she served us some snacks. I turned to watch her work in her kitchen area. It couldn't be referred to as a room proper. It was literally an alcove in the side of the living room which had been updated to include plumbing for a sink, electricity to run the hot plate, a single small counter along with one small shelf above the sink for storing dishes and a tiny refrigerator in the corner. From that minuscule space she produced coke and cookies which she placed on the round table, and then bananas, and some grapes. Then little cakes. It was great, so great to be there and to be taken in and taken over by her hospitality. I only wish we could go back now and find her again, so that I could actually converse with her, rather than only being able to offer my paltry Dank u wel over and over again.

So, in truth that has to be the tiniest kitchen in the world. But the size of mine has to run a close second.

Galley style, recently remodeled (but not enlarged?) it is a sleek and lovely design with it's white cabinets, large storage drawers and 4--count 'em 4 cupboards. I have a gas top stove, a half-size dishwasher and a combination microwave/convection/electric oven which has the capacity to hold, exactly one 9x13 inch casserole dish. Or a small cookie sheet. What it cannot hold is a full size muffin tin, a deep dish roasting pan, or a turkey for Thanksgiving. Believe me, I didn't even try.

This will be telling. When I tried to take photos of this itty-bittiness to post alongside these words, I couldn't even get an angle in the room to take a picture of my tiny appliances and my tiny work space. That's how small my kitchen is.

But I don't mind so much really.

In this as with most everything in our lives, we have just learned to adapt and make do. Preparing for dinner parties is always an interesting sight, wherein I use every available space including the top of the refrigerator (which is also small) to hold plates and trays full of food not quite ready to serve, but which need housing somewhere until it's time for the table. The shelves of the fridge will be bursting with containers which I have expertly arranged and balanced so nothing gets squished. Or at least not squashed beyond recognition. I have even been known to ask one of the children to "just stand there and hold that for a minute" as I make space on my counter top for one more mixing bowl or cutting board moment.

I do regret that the space is just not conducive to lengthy chef lessons for my kids. I have very fond memories of cooking side by side with my Dad in the kitchen as he prepared meals for our family. I learned to cook under his tutelage and I am sad that there just isn't the space to have the kids in the kitchen with me. At least not all of them at the same time.

The one true upside I see to having such a tiny space is that I don't do a whole lot of baking here. That's not a bad thing, as the cookie eating monster that I am can do without a daily dose of snickerdoodles.

Trust me, these hips don't lie.

Mama Had a Baby

I posted this photo of my daughter on our family website last week, and my mother-in-law responded saying, among other things, "...I have always loved dandelions and thought they got a bum rap from society at large...."

I couldn't agree more. I love dandelions; the little bright spots of color popping out of the grass. Cheery little bits of sunshine. Explosions of summer on the lawn.

I know master gardeners and lawn aficionados do not join me in the applause for the happy little flower. I understand that in the book of great gardens, a dandelion has no place. I get that it's a weed. But darn it, it's the prettiest little weed on the planet.
As a matter of fact, if you had told me that dandelions were weeds when I was a young'un, I would never, could never have believed you. I used to spend hours in the fields near home picking gobs of dandelions and then sitting in the grass with a lapful of flowers while I patiently, methodically weaved stems together to create perfect dandelion crowns. Adorning my head in the decadent yellow actually made me feel like a princess. I loved it immensely.

In the late spring months in Salt Lake City, Utah when the dandelions were out in full force my friends and I used to make dandelion jewelry during our recess breaks at school. Given the decade, our youth, and the State I grew up in, we knew little of piercing anything other than ears so our jewelry weaving was limited to decorating heads, arms and ankles. To my knowledge no one among us ever tried to thrust a dandelion stem through a nose or a tongue. There may well have been a belly button decoration once or twice, after all we were a generation raised on I Dream of Jeannie. Once fully bejeweled we entered the world of our imaginative play. The group of us had concocted an elaborate game about ANCIENT ISLANDERS who WORSHIPPED the ancient gods. One of us, usually me, would be the goddess and the others would assume the role of humble goddess worshipper. The being of greatness would sit on a rock or a tree stump looking down on the humans and they in turn would prostrate themselves on the ground, gyrating in undulating motion, arms waving and chant "O Holy MOON-SUN god". But to be totally honest about it we were all a little nervous about the sin attached to using the name G-O-D and thus opted for the wholly benign "O Holy MOON-SUN Gosh" instead. This satisfied all players that the ancient goddess would understand the substitution and we would avoid offending the big guy upstairs or more likely the eavesdropping third graders who were bound to report us.

We played other games too. My older brothers taught me the tortuous rhyme "my mama had a baby and it's head popped off" which we would chant after picking up dandelions and upon the "head popped off" line would place a thumb just under the base of the flower and with applied force flick the top of the dandelion from the stem. The flower would fly up with a satisfying force before succumbing to the gravitational pull of the earth and land with a thud at our feet. My mother ALWAYS protested this game. I didn't get that at the time, but it comes to me clearly now just how morose and macabre the silly play was. I have never passed on the tradition to my kids. I wonder if my brothers have to theirs?
The greatest joy of course was finding a wishing flower; the dandelion gone to seed and forming a perfect sphere of fluffy whiteness. Tenderly I would pluck this treasure from the ground, being very careful not to upset a single seed and send it flying before its time. I then would close my eyes, squeezing them tightly, and WISH. I can't tell you what I wished for, because if you tell a wish it doesn't come true. But I wished for some glorious things every chance I got. Wishing complete, I would open my eyes and BLOW; the tiny seeds released from the center post gracefully floating, swirling, sweeping through the air. Off and on the way to retrieve the secret desires I had placed among them. Oh, how I loved to watch these gatherers of my hopes dancing away.

To this day I remain a big fan of the dandelion. I suppose it would still be a difficult sell to convince me that they are anything other than brilliant spots of inspiration and sweet memories. And while I am on this point, I should mention that I take my hat off to the resilience of the wonder weed. More often than not, I see the plants making their way up through the cracks in a sidewalk or a bursting out of a brick fence. To flourish like that under difficult circumstances is something that absolutely commands respect.

Truly, something to aspire to.

Taking It In

I love laundry on the line. I love to watch the kaleidoscope of colors and shapes blow in the breeze. I love the way that sheets snap when the wind whistles past. I love the look of socks dangling precariously on the wire. I love the way air-dried laundry smells. Oh, I love that scent.

In the early years of our marriage, Don and I ventured to parts theretofore-to-us unknown when we moved to the desert town of Tucson, Arizona. Don would be attending law school at the University of Arizona, hence we we would make our home in this desert for the following three years. I fell in love with the Tucson landscape immediately; the desert brush, the towering saguaro, the spindly ocotillo, and the pervasive prickly pear were beauty beyond description in my eyes. Initially, we lived in a beat-up, run-down, roach-infested housing facility for married students, but within a few months we followed a lead and found a two-bedroom duplex home in the center of town. It was perfect for us. And you couldn't beat the rent: $325/month. The house was small, but ample. We had space for a home office/study room and a great little bedroom in the back with big windows overlooking the back yard. We also had a washing machine in the house. Repeating that now. A washing machine in the house. No longer would I have to haul baskets of laundry to and from an apartment complex laundry room. I had a washing machine of my own. There wasn't a dryer, but that was a small matter to me, as there was a laundry line in the back yard. Between the two hefty citrus trees (one orange and one grapefruit) and above the river-rock ground cover, there was a sturdy set of metal poles with three long wires stretched between them. There it was standing ready to do the job; it was as if the apparatus was calling out for laundry to be pinned there, so as to fulfill the measure of its creation. I loved hanging the laundry out on the line. With the first loads that I washed and then carried outside I was flooded with memories of my childhood when I helped my mother with the very same task. I remember standing alongside her as she bent over the basket of wet things and then straightened to her full height to attach them to the clothesline above. It was my job to hand her the clothespins and I took that responsibility very seriously, making certain that I always had one available when her hand reached down into mine to retrieve the wooden clips. Hanging laundry in Tucson was like a little magical trip back in time for me.
On the warmest of days laundry hanging was a time efficient task. I could hang the clothes swiftly, moving from left to right down the line, and by the time I had reached the bottom of the basket I could return to the start and begin removing them. They would be hot and dry in no time at all. When you pull on desert-air dried jeans there is a distinct snap and crack to the denim. You can't duplicate it anywhere. The same goes for the crispness of a t-shirt pulled over your head. It slides down the torso with an unambiguous 'a-woosh'.

And, oh that scent.

Ultimately, we got an electric dryer and I didn't use the line in back as often. With each house move since then we have always had both a washing machine and a dryer and I have fallen more and more out of the habit of hanging the laundry out to dry.

However, just this week our dryer quit on us. Without signal or warning it just decided to stop drying things. Perhaps it was feeling overused and underappreciated as it stood atop the washing machine slaving away day after day, load after load. So it just decided to rest. I understand the sentiment. Entirely. But while we waited for a landlord's decision regarding repair or replacement of the machine, the laundry itself forgot to stop piling up. Consequently, in order to keep up I found myself once again bending over the basket hanging laundry out on the line. At this house, the laundry line is a moderately strong but somewhat floppy piece of wire strung between the walls of the back balcony. Because of the direction it faces, the spot doesn't take in a lot of sun so it was no warm-Tucson-time-efficient drying. But oh, what a great sight to look out my office window and see the colors and the shapes hanging on the line. I sat at my desk and watched the clothing snap, twist, blow, flap, and sway in the wind; the socks looking almost comical as they gamboled in the updraft. The colder temperature and the humidity in the air made line drying a full-day event these past several days but as I have carried the laundry basket through the house to the back balcony I have once again basked in my memories.

As I pulled things in from the line this morning I found myself a little bit sad. The new dryer will be delivered today and let's be honest, I won't be drying my socks outside any more.

So I took that moment to bury my face in the freshly dry t-shirts and towels and I inhaled deeply.

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head

I am thinking about rain today. Which is really not a big shock considering our locale and the season. Before we moved to the Netherlands I remember reading through an “Everything about Holland” book Emma had borrowed from the public library. There was a section about the climate and a chart of annual rain measurements. I laughed out loud when I read about the more than thirty inches of precipitation annually. Having lived for eight years in Phoenix, Arizona in a dry-as-a-bone-hotter-that-Hades desert climate it was hard to get my mind around the idea of that much rain. I can now. I can also sing every rendition of the plethora of rain songs written, starting with the childhood classic “It’s Raining, It’s Pouring” straight through to Milli Vanilli’s "Blame It On The Rain". This is my attempt to keep our hearts light when the skies are relentlessly gray. And we have definitively found that grey skies are the norm here. Yes, it rains a lot in Holland.

Andrew doesn’t really like the rain. No, let me rephrase that. He doesn’t like the rain AT NIGHT. During the daytime hours he romps in the rain and pulls on his wellies so he can splash in the puddles. This is three-year old happiness at its finest. Daytime rain is not so bad. Nighttime rain is another story. If it’s raining at night my husband and I can generally count on a bedmate, sneaking under the covers within minutes of the first drops striking his window pane. And then there was the night of drama trauma when I responded to midnight cries on the third floor. I found Andrew standing stock still on top of his bed bellowing at the top of his lungs: “IT’S RAINING GUYS! GUYS! IT’S RAINING!”. He joined us in our bed that night too.

Andrew’s reaction to rainstorms reminds me of me. I have intense memories of a time when I was small; not much older than Andrew is now, during a thunderstorm of epic proportions. We were living in Salt Lake City, Utah and it was a summer storm. I remember grand flashes of light and tremendous rolls of thunder shocking and booming through the sky. I was terrified. I remember trembling, and crying big shoulder heaving sobs as I searched to find a spot where I could hide away from the chaos of the storm. My best option for refuge was to wrap myself into the full-length drapes hanging at the windows in the living room. Maybe if I couldn’t see it, I wouldn’t hear it and then I would be safe.

That’s where I was when my Daddy found me; curled up and shaking, tear streaks running across my cheeks. He pulled me out of my hiding place and asked me about my troubles. I am sure that what poured forth from my five-year-old self was succinct and poetic as I explained to my Pop the sheer terror I was feeling on account of Mother Nature’s outdoor demonstration. I can’t recount the actual conversation we shared but I can vividly recall the feelings of the day. My dad and I sat together there in the living room; my arms wrapped around his neck, and watched the storm. That was the day I learned about measuring the distance of lightning by counting the seconds between the strike and the thunder clap. Counting with him was a good distraction from the tears still, perched at the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. I am sure we sat there counting for a good long time; or at least 15 minutes. And then, when the lighting and thunder show had ceased, and the rain was falling in earnest, my dad and I took a walk. A long walk in the rain together, hands joined. We walked in the rain, and we talked in the rain. Timid at first and then braver as the journey continued I remember being amazed by just almost everything I was seeing. And I remember getting wet. Very wet; as in drenched and dripping with rainwater. It was marvelous. I do wish I could call up any actual words he said to me as I have no doubts that they were perfect and profound as he talked to me about rain and life, teaching me things it would take me decades to fully understand. All I know is I felt strong and brave walking with my daddy that day and I was no longer afraid.

Not of the rain.

Not of anything.

Thanks Scribbit for the inspiration and the opportunity. Wishing you bright skies and sunny days too!