bon hiver

I have always loved winter, and it's only recently that I have realized that's a statement of privilege.  My lights turn on in the long dark nights, I don't worry about whether I'll be able to pay to keep the heat running, and I'm not lacking in tough boots and warm woolen layers. I'm safe and comfortable, knowing I have a haven from winter when it settles in, temporarily snuffing out all the life around me. I'm lucky that it has never been a threat with real teeth.

It's true that life is easier at the opposite end of the season spectrum. But it's the sense of urgency that winter imposes that I thrill to. It's a unique satisfaction to pile on layers of clothing and make the trek to the brewery around the corner, walking quickly because, despite my best efforts, the cold is steadily seeping under my coat. It's a relief to barrel through the doors, shed the layers, and unwind the tightness in my shoulders that kept them unconsciously tethered to my ears for the whole walk. Before long, the only sensation of cold left in my body just clings faintly to my cheeks and fingertips.

It reassures me that I'm whole and alive, and that my biology does what it's built to do; a remarkable feat in such a contrary environment. There are plenty of other parts of winter that I love, too--the beauty, the hush, the cleansing of it--but it's the life spark that it triggers in my gut and lungs and numbed cheeks that I would so miss if I lived somewhere without winter.

My Dog is Better at Life than I Am

My dog is growing old, right before my eyes. There's something surreal about watching the whole life cycle of another creature you care about. People never witness each other's bookends of life; we just catch segments that are sometimes the beginnings or endings. Never the whole thing. But somehow, time drifted by and now my dog is a little whiter of paw, a little weaker of hindquarters.

What is wonderful and heartbreaking about this is that he isn't aware that he's aging. He has naturally made some adjustments for his limitations, but really, in his heart, he fully believes he can run ten miles without stopping--leaping and twisting in the air to snatch a tennis ball as he used to do. And even after he comes crashing down in a spectacular failure, he still scrambles to his feet, prepared to hurtle onwards.

He's always been that way, completely engaged in the moment of pursuit and unhindered by any other elements. As someone who goes through life painfully self-conscious and too, too worried about the anonymous world's assessment of me, I totally envy and admire this innate talent he has. The only self-awareness he has involves deploying his chasing and catching skills, and returning the ball to any human who will humor him. (Including tiny humans who haven't the motor skills to humor him just yet.)

His life might be too short for me, but nobody can say he didn't make the most of it. He has lived firmly in each moment, and let his feet take flight when they wished, without fear or a second thought.

if people are seasons

My stepmom is autumn, her face warmed and browned after a summer spent outdoors, cupboards full of comforting harvest and rooms with deep brown wooden furniture. Her rooms are full of the scent of steaming cups of tea and wool and wood smoke, and they hum with candles as daylight dims. The light is low and the floors are warm.

 If people are seasons, then my dad is a north-woods-of-Wisconsin-winter, piles upon piles of peacefully sleeping snow and heavy curtains of pine. He is briskly gliding cross-country skis, stacks of hand-hewn firewood, and deep breaths making clouds of steam in the clear air.

 My mom was an east-Texas-spring, behind a different curtain of pines. Her spring spills over with dessert-named flowers like azaleas and magnolias and bluebonnets, lush and refreshed by warm rain showers. It's the gentle, easy warmth and fragrant air before the smothering glare of summer.

dwelling place

We've spent nearly two seasons in our first home, but that just means our most-committed-home, sixth-dwelling-place-in-seven-years. This is the first one we've owned, which suddenly makes things much more official.

Things I am learning:

I need a define-the-relationship discussion to understand neighbors. All of my previous relationships have been understood to be temporary, which didn't make me very eager to mentally commit. But this sure feels like a long-term deal. How committed are we to this relationship? What are your expectations? Are you going to compare me to your last relationship all the time, since she's the one who broke up with you?

When Toby chases squirrels, he hurls his body at the back fence like a hockey player crashing against the boards. That's exactly what it sounds like, too. Without pads or a helmet.

Pinterest makes me feel like interior decorating is an adventure waiting to be started, and then I realize Pinterest is no measure of time and expense and expertise and taste.

Our furniture is a wild mishmash of whatever would fit in our last apartment, hastily constructed Ikea storage, inherited antiques, and regrettable-first-year-of-marriage selections. It does not harmonize. And now that my furniture choices will be sticking around, and can't be explained away by our nomadic history, the pressure to make GOOD choices is enormous.

Hand in hand with the pressure is the satisfying power to change what I don't like. Passive acceptance with a rental was the norm up until now, but I can paint over the ugly yellow room, I can tear up the ugly tile, I can redesign the landscaping. (That last one is a stretch, though. Previous owner puts me to shame with the landscaping. I will hide my tomato and basil plants around her curated perennials.)

Daily life now doesn't so much feel like, "what's next?"--more like, "what now?" And I suppose the answer is both "nothing, we're done" and "EVERYTHING."

long black veil

This song isn't new, and I first heard it not very long ago. Maybe it's just well suited for the short, blustery days of autumn. But it is creeping up my list of favorites.

Johnny Cash's cover:


Iron & Wine's cover:



But the Dave Matthews might be my favorite:

i held so many people in my suitcase heart

8/14/12

I’m wearing a belt of mom’s that I saved, but have never tried on. It’s an American Airlines one, thin and black, and the buckle is an oval with a silver eagle on the front, just the kind that hooks into a hole in the belt. The first time I wrap it around me, I see right away which holes are worn and stretched and which are not. Her waist fit my waist. Or really, mine fits hers.

It’s such a contradiction to me. We people leave such traces behind. The space between my hands fitting that belt, and her hands twenty years past fitting that belt, is just a heartbeat apart. A home packed, filled wall to wall and page to page with newspaper trimmings and shreds of loopy handwriting. So many objects treasured and tucked away by so many pairs of hands before us, and clutched tight to our chests for a little longer. Shoes broken in and relaxed to fit a particular pair of feet. A scarf still smelling faintly of someone’s perfume. A recipe printed in a church cookbook with penciled notes and adjustments from experiments gone awry somehow. Our markings are everywhere, whether or not we are mindful of who will read and touch and smell them when we’re gone. Sometimes it’s the things we take such care to preserve, and other times it’s the note from the doctor jotted down by the phone, just as easily thrown away as enshrined by someone else.

It’s a wave of comfort, followed closely by a wave of grief for the gift that’s left for me to hold on to, while knowing how insufficient it is to replace the person. It’s a treasure in the same moment that is also a weak reflection and a fragment.

How can a thing be so important, so so important, and a breath later, just another thing?

inheritance, part 3

7/14 – 7/15

We talk about how Grandmama was such a pack rat, especially the infamous newspaper clippings. They were, and are, everywhere: tucked in every book, layered with cookbooks, in every box and basket, lining drawers. Anything of interest to her, or to someone she thinks might like it. 

But I realize after a little while, that I love this about her, because it’s a sign of how much she still loved learning—never quit learning. Her mind was always scanning for new information, filing things away to use sometime in the future, adding to her physical and mental collection of ideas and facts. The inquisitiveness outweighs the tangible clutter.

600 miles away, in a hotel parking lot, we roll up the door of the truck and the smell just about knocks me over. It isn’t foul. It’s already serving as a time machine, and is an on-switch for emotions and memories and mental images, in less than a second. It smells like dust and stale books and rotting wood—it smells like the garage. I can hear the back door screech open and slam closed. I can feel the humid air wrap around me with my first inhale. Why are smells so memory-linked? I can remember keeping a stuffed animal of Aunt Lucy’s, and liking the way it smelled; certain clothes of Mom’s smelled like her for a while, too. But those have faded over time. I hope these things retain their scent for a little while.

inheritance, part 2

                                                

 I have a fuller and deeper understanding of inheritance now.  I’m really overwhelmed by the weight of it, and I feel inadequate to hold it and carry it. It’s just this gift, for no reason other than that I was born and others died. Like it was this sacred gift. I’m grateful and undeserving.

It’s the closest, most literal handing down of grace I have experienced. The feeling of total inadequacy and total thankfulness together. Obviously, I should do something. I should be saying more and responding, but that’s not required. All I can do is say thank you, but in a way, there’s no reason to. I couldn't if I tried.

inheritance, part 1

We dig through photographs and newspaper clippings and scraps of yellowed paper. Everyone looks vaguely like someone else. This nose, that hair. The front page of the newspaper one day in 1934, when Bonnie and Clyde were killed—tucked into a Bible.  I find myself a little in awe of the idea that 100 years ago, none of these people could have imagined that their blood relatives would be sitting in this living room, on their furniture, studying their faces and their handwriting. 100 years from now, who knows who will be looking at our pictures (there will be more to choose from) and wondering about our lives, of which most of the minutae and details have been lost. 

for my family

6/16 - 6/18

 It’s not strange for a tall mustachioed man to walk in, wearing cowboy boots, a belt buckle the size of a dollar bill, and a leather vest, his white cowboy hat in hand to pay his respects. In a way, combining visits for losses ten years apart. “Your mother was a lovely woman. Always a lady. Thought of her when I drove through Arlington Heights once, on a route from Joliet.” I get the sense he might have been too shy to ever have carried on a whole conversation with her when they were young, but maybe admired her from afar.

We’re gathered in the small, square room and it feels like there should be more of us. (Is our family really this small?) There is an American flag draped over the bottom half of the closed casket. I’m glad somebody thought of that.

Grandaddy wears what Dad says he saw him wear to every important event—navy blazer, khakis, bright red tie. His shock of white hair still fuller than you’d expect any 92-year-old man to have. Rachelle shoved a dollar in his hand on the way out, as he was always shoving money in our hands as we left. “I thought a twenty would make him too mad.”

Mr. Crawford came in to town especially to prepare him, and mentioned that his hands were still remarkable, especially when it came to golf: so strong and capable and powerful, and at the same time so delicate and gentle.

His hands were an unforgettable part of him (like his melting-satellite-dish ears)—thick and rough, their backs speckled and textured like the back of a hundred-year-old-whale. (or something equally spotted, hairy, rippled, and multicolored) I don’t remember his young-man-hands, so the old hands are the ones I know. His thumb tips curved out just a little, maybe by nature, maybe fine-tuned for golf.

I still expect half-cigars lying forgotten on any given surface, even though he hasn’t chewed them for years.  Even as he grew quieter lately, I still keep glancing over to his chair because that was where he should be. Expected the white shock of hair, the glint of his glasses, the scuff of worn loafers, the priceless sideways shots of wisdom that lost their spark if repeated in any voice other than his own. There's no point in quoting him if you never knew him, and can't hear his voice in your head, saying it himself.

He did always sign his cards and letters and sweet notes: "Himself."

breaking the silence to say:

My family lost a patriarch nine days ago, and I'm still mulling over what that means, to my heritage and my future.

But I think this poem by Maurice Manning is a small slice of what's running through my head & my heart.

MOONSHINE

The older boy said, Take ye a slash
o' this--hit'll make yore sticker peck out--

which would have been a more profound
effect than putting hair on my chest,

to which I was already accustomed.
Proverbially, of course, he was right.

I took a slash, another, and then
I felt an impassioned swelling, though

between my ears, as they say, a hot
illumination in my brain.

The shine had not been cut; full of
the moon it was for sure. I knew

the mountain county it came from--
my family's section, on Little Goose.

A distant cousin would have been proud
to know another cousin was drinking

what might as well be blood, at least
the bonds that come with blood, the laugh

before the tragic truth, the love
of certain women, the hate for lies,

the knowledge that death can be a mercy,
the vision blurred and burning there

in the mind and in the wounded heart.
This was the first time I heard the story

I was born to tell, the first I knew
that I was in the story, too.

A Summer's empty Room...

It sifts from Leaden Sieves -
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road -

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain -
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again -

It reaches to the Fence -
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces -
It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack - and Stem -
A Summer's empty Room -
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them -

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen -
Then stills its Artisans - like Ghosts -
Denying they have been -


- Emily Dickinson

from behind the pine curtain

"Soup's on!"

The missing pound cake recipe that is destined to be a family heirloom, as soon as we can find it among countless stashes of newspaper clippings and quickly jotted notes.

A response to my statement that, no, we aren't having kids just yet: "well, that's okay. I was an old mother too." GREAT. THANK YOU.

Collective laughter when my husband asked if anybody wanted "pop" from the grocery store.

Repeated viewings of Grandaddy's second great love: Diana Krall in Rio de Janeiro.

Locating constellations from the living room couch, courtesy of Steve Jobs.

Sharing more connections than differences, as is the case when you are lucky enough to be related to such folks.

another repurposed dress

I'm still tweaking this next project, but when I found this $5 XXL Tall men's sweater in a thrift store, it just had so much potential. At first, the shoulder seams landed just above my elbows, and the sleeves dangled a good eight inches past my wrists and the armpits hung like wings. I did nothing to the neck opening or the length. (Also, please note that in the next two pictures I am busy trying to convince Toby to do... something.)

This first picture shows the color most accurately- a sort of mossy green. It isn't the most attractive color right away, but a colorful scarf, thick belt, statement necklace, or bright tights (maybe orange?) could  make a huge difference.

Please forgive my dirty Peter Pan boots. And like I said, not the most gorgeous color, but compared to these, for example...

$188 from Anthropologie.

$65 from Modcloth.

$79 from Urban Outfitters. 

...five bucks from Salvation Army starts to look pretty good. 

Fall Film Fest!

If I were a good, serious, capital-B Blogger, then I would have had this list ready to share on September 1st. Since I am a lazy, haphazard, lower-case blog-when-I-feel-like-it blogger, I'm just now posting this autumn film smorgasbord. Here are a few movies that I love to watch as the days get a little cooler, food gets a little heartier, and trees throw a big costume-changing party.

September: Anne of Green Gables: The Sequel


This series of "Anne" movies are sentimental and dreamy and quaint, for sure. My childhood self drank them up on sick days when I got to stay home from school, and they've stuck ever since. This one spans a few years and several seasons, but there are some lovely autumn shots and I love the series of scenes when Anne takes her students on a picnic on the behalf of Mrs. Harris, the crotchety grandmother of one of her students. It's the turning point for her relationship with Mrs. Harris, and their gradually warming friendship fits well with the charm and sparkle of the season around them.

October: Fantastic Mr. Fox

There is something about the combination of Roald Dahl + Wes Anderson + stop motion animation that is just perfect. And the warm sunset backgrounds, underground burrows, wool-and-plaid-clad humans, and storerooms of fat poultry and golden cider make for a delicious and light-hearted fall movie. (This soundtrack is pretty great, too.)

November: Gosford Park

I love this movie for a lot of reasons: a truly incredible cast, an understated and brilliant sense of humor, a dark and twisty mystery, a captivating wardrobe. The mood is set right away; even the opening credits themselves serve to set a damp, dreary, melancholy tone. It's about a group that gathers for a hunting party on a 1930's estate and a sort of Agatha Christie mystery unfolds, involving both the visiting upper class and "below-stairs" lower class staff.

(right about 2:00 is a beautiful title shot)

It's so suited to a bleak, misty, tea-sipping and blanket-bundling kind of afternoon.

(The costumes at 3:00 are so spot-on: tweed! wool! hats! and one poor fox. And the lavish outdoor lunch at 5:00 feels brisk and lacking just enough color, except for the glasses of richly red Bloody Mary... too much foreshadowing?)

Relics

In an effort to help my dad & stepmom purge, I recently brought home a carload of family heirlooms they had been holding on to- in the form of china. SO MUCH CHINA.

I'm pretty sure this all came from my mom's side of the family, but any more information is lost to history, which is too bad. (Unless one of my relatives is reading this and can fill in the gaps for me!) I am resisting doing some purging myself, mostly out of a vague nostalgic attachment to family history, although I really don't know when we are going to have a dinner party that requires THIRTY PLACE SETTINGS of a wine glass, water glass, (not pictured) dinner plate, salad plate, dessert plate, teacup, and saucer. Not how we roll.

Bryan's solution is to see what these would fetch on Ebay. I'm a little bit tempted, I'll admit.

These teacups, though, have much more sentimental value for me. My mom collected them at random before she passed away, and I wish I knew when and where, but that's just another mystery upon all the others, unfortunately.

To quote my stepmom: THIS is why nobody has silver any more. Because you would spend your life polishing it, forever and ever. (And I'm not really the type to go back in time and move to England and hire a staff to do it for me)

But still kind of cool, right? I would love to find a way to work them into our ordinary dishes, or use them for decoration or something. 

There is more porcelain and silver and glass, (oh, so much more) but I will spare you. The last category, though, I'm even less sure of what to do with.

This pink quilt lived on my bed for a while when I was a kid, and I'm pretty sure it's a family heirloom too, but once again: mystery. What's not a mystery: the rough shape it's in, what with all the shredding and stains.  

This one rotated through mine and my brothers' childhoods as well, and it's in better shape (although still pretty stained and beat up):

I love the scalloped edges on this one. The question is, is it worth it to try to clean/restore these? I'm not particularly attached to them, but they aren't really functional in their current state, and I can't bring myself to just throw them away.

This last one, though... so much potential.

I love all the colors going on, and how the honeycomb effect is orderly and whimsical at the same time.

This quilt is also unfinished, which means I could do that myself (or learn?) and put it to good use, although it would probably only fit a twin-sized bed in the end.

All hand-stitched.

OR, I could take a deep breath and cut it up. Throw pillows, a tablecloth or runner, Christmas tree skirt, mixed-media art or wall hanging. The right inspiration could lead me to do it, but do I really want to undo all the hours of sewing that some dedicated person (relative?) poured into this? I hesitate.

I love when treasured possessions have stories that give them a little life, and even more when they evoke a particular memory on top of it. I just don't know when I cross the line from sentimental into aimless hoarder, or if I'm already there, which is entirely possible. We tend to purge every time we move anyway, which is roughly every ten minutes, so maybe that will solve the problem for me! Time will tell.

Autumn's Inauguration

A chill settled in last night and has lingered all day, prompting me to start the Seasonal Closet Turnover process. A lot of laundry and digging and sorting as I decide what clothes need to just go to Goodwill already because I have not worn them in six years anyway, but I keep them because they are pretty (not because I am a batty old hoarder).

I don't know how people from California or any other temperate climate do it, keeping their entire wardrobes accessible all year round,  because I just don't have the closet space to pull it off. Which maybe explains why so many women are more obsessed with walk-ins than I am. In any case, I love this ritual, and it has definitely become a ritual. I love unearthing jackets and boots and sweaters that I forgot I had, and stashing skirts and sundresses away to make room for them. Trading out the linen for the wool. Pulling out the heavy, thick blankets for the bed. There's something about the organizing and preparation process that feels comforting and right, like gearing up for hibernation. Like storing up the harvest before a long winter.

All this scenario is missing is some hot (spiced? spiked?) cider, and today would be perfect.

p.s. My lovely stepmom (yes, those two words can coexist, much like "lovely mother-in-law") found this beauty for us at the weirdest garage sale I have ever seen, and I am pretty stoked about it.

I have never upholstered a thing in my life, but I'm willing to give it a shot. The sheer pressure of picking the perfect fabric just might kill me, though.

crafty craft craft

Well, I really have no good explanation for the lack of writing other than a creative lull in general. Moving and all of the accompanying tasks sort of sucked the energy out of me, combined with the occasional summer road trip. But hopefully things will settle into whatever normal is going to look like soon.

I have managed to pay attention to a couple projects long enough to actually finish them, though. Exhibit A!

A silver tray from a thrift store, combined with my own tarnished jewelry, endured several hot water/baking soda baths- the jewelry only went through once, but the tray went three rounds and STILL was not totally clear.

Much improved, though! (The perfume bottles are old ones of my mom's... err, vintage. "Old" always = "vintage", right?) This sheet of tinfoil was the third one to go, also. (Something about the tarnish transferring to the foil? I don't know science.)

Gross! Also from the same thrift store trip, these two beauties:

The bases are brass, then ceramic painted to look like wood? Or something? To match the wooden necks? I have no idea. They were mostly just ugly. And we needed living room lamps for cheap. Like, $5 per lamp and spray paint cheap.

That'll do. The lampshades are still a little funky, but they're livable until something classier comes along.

Now, this is the part where I brag because I'm pretty stinkin' proud of myself for pulling this one off. I had pretty low expectations. Before: a thrifted XXL cotton/linen beauty of a jumper.

After: this dress! (the cutest free pattern the internet would provide)

I quickly figured out that the stripes were going to cause me problems- keeping them orderly but getting enough fabric out of the old dress was a tight squeeze. There is definitely some funkiness on the sides where the skirt flares out, but other than that, I'm really pleased. I haven't tried to sew an invisible zipper in ages, but I made it through without any fits of cursing!

The belt is thrifted also, and I suspect it's a child's belt because I'm on the very last notch. Whatever works! Just in time for the end of summer!

within earshot

The sleepy, deliberate ringing of the church bells across the soccer field, tallying the hours. The number 24 bus rumbling past, shocks gasping as it lurches over the 3-foot-wide speed humps. Kids arguing, scuffling, pretending, hollering, pleading: "just throw the ball back over here!" A sudden rustle and clanging tags as Toby attempts to follow a squirrel up a tree. Strains of sweet and imperfect cello, piano, and clarinet floating out a nearby window. A train braying, and then again, and again...

A new environment, a different pace, another place to call home.

two days of sunshine in a row!

...the nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew over those brown beds which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps.

- Jane Eyre