pomegranatesandpaper

Hello Young Lovers

I promise I will not start another post with a song refrain, but this one is so apt. the Princess, as you know, is home from college and lifeguarding at a camp. She is having major love problems. Without invading her privacy, suffice to say that we never love those that love too easily, and we always want the one that got away. That sounds like a fortune cookie - simply put, she doesn't return the feelings of someone who is her friend, and she is attracted to someone else but doesn't want to lose the friendship. She came home very stressed out from work and from all this relationship turmoil, and I gave her some sage words of advice and suggested she take a shower and cool off for awhile, but she has to go to her friend's house, who just talked to her ex-best friend and told him that she was seeing someone else and now he's never going to talk to her again and.....

What a flood of memories this all brings back to me. It feels like a million years ago that my hormones were racing and my heart was fluttering and my head was spinning from my desires, unrequited and otherwise. I feel the tenderness of her concern for her best friend, I feel the ache in her heart that she can't force herself to feel differently about him, and I feel her young lust to be with someone to whom she is physically attracted. I'd forgotten the drama, the angst, the phone calls, the drop-by visitors, the calls to friends to check on the other person, the concern, the worry, then the anger, the tears.

I'm really not a person to come to for relationship advice. I've been with the same man for a very long time. The idiosyncracies of our relationship are our own, confined within the tango of two persons who have known each other since they were teens. So I'm really good on teenage relationship advice, but don't have a clue about meeting and greeting in "mature relationships", or as my youngest delicately put it today "for older persons" (this was in connection with activities to do at a water park that she wants me to take her to, not love). Considering that, perhaps I am a good person to give advice to her. After all, certain issues are immutable, not affected by time or mores.

And what, you ask, are these immutable standards of love?

1. You can't force yourself to be attracted to someone
2. You can't expect the other person to "just be friends" because you want them to be.
3. No matter how understanding the unloved person is, once you start to date someone else, they will be livid and blow up in your face.
4. If you try to juggle too many boys, you end with yolk on your face.

OK, the last one mixed metaphors, but you get my drift.

Tender mercies. That's what thought of when my daughter was crying. We all just need to treat each other with tender mercy. My oldest can be a very tough person when she is angry. She can rage at me, scream, slam doors, and hold a grudge for quite awhile. (I wonder where she got that from?)

But when she cries, her face turns red and her shoulders shake, and she seems as tiny as when she was three. I hate seeing her cry over boys and friends. She's been hurt in some significant relationships, both boys and girls. I've learned, though, as most of us have, not to get too entrenched in the war because when it is over, and will end eventually, you have to welcome that person back into your house and serve them steak and mashed potatoes with a smile when all you want to do is plop the mashed potatoes on their head.

So we took her out for a burger, and drove to a new ice cream place where they mix in the fillings. By the time we got home, she was singing as she got out of the car. She's off to H's, to tell her the whole story, to rehash the IM'ing that occurred after she got home, to call her guy friends to see what they think, and hopefully, to get home and go to bed earlier than 2:00. God, I'm glad I'm not 19 anymore. And God, I miss it.

Morning Has Spoken

The end of June has brought crispy, sunny weather to the Northeast. We've only had to turn on the air conditioning one night so far this year. The air smells wonderful this morning, and outside the French doors of my bedroom, the scene is filled with green-leafed trees. Our little efforts at gardening have blossomed into great returns. The hydrangea are a heavy blue under the dogwood tree. Stan's bright yellow day lilies are a spot of color against the fence in the backyard, and the bower of pink "Peace" roses are in their second flush of blooms. Two years ago, Stan and Julia planted dozens of sunflower seeds against the garage wall. Two years later, we are still enjoying the volunteers that pop up each year. The morning glories and nasturtiums in the big pot are climbing up the sculpture next to it. I've seen one red nasturtium flower so far, and there are dozens of morning glory buds. I hope when I go out to my car this morning I am surprised by blooms.

There's still so much more to do outside. Major landscaping and new sidewalks are needed. I caught my shoe in one of the larger cracks in the front sidewalk and almost fell flat on my face. This is an old house that had little TLC in the years before we bought it. Like the garden, we poke at it, trying to accomplish small projects. It is discouraging at times when I'd like nothing better than to bring in a bulldozer and pull out every overgrown evergreen and scraggly bush, demolish the sidewalks, and have it all professionally redone. However, we've committed the money to the kids' education and we'll just have to deal with it for a few more years. In the meanwhile, if we plant enough flowers, we can disguise the fault lines, or at least distract ourselves from seeing them!

That's pretty much how we live our lives these days. There's an awful lot going on under the surface that we ignore and distract ourselves from. There isn't much we can do about these underground streams that threaten to spill their banks at times, so we shore up the weak points and try to contain the spillage. It's not a great way to live, but it is the way most of us do it. There are some problems that will never be resolved, continuing issues tied to health, money, debt, career, and relationships.

Each morning, my husband gets up for work 45 minutes before I do. When he leaves, I have another twenty minutes left to sleep. He always kisses me good bye, and despite whatever differences we've had the night before, we each wish each other a good day and say our love. I always feel like he is going off to war, and somedays his face and posture reveal the same. I try to get back to sleep for those minutes I have left, but usually the worry over how long he can continue to work gets me out of bed. By the time I'm dressed and in the car, I feel better. The day seems to be under control, business as usual. As much as I obsess over all that is wrong, getting out of bed and starting the day makes most of the worries recede. We all need something to get us out of bed in the morning. I am grateful and thank God that I have a job to get me out of bed. I remember so well those months of unemployment and nights when anxiety robbed me of sleep. I'd like to stay home today and write, clean up my art room, and take my daughter to the pool. I'd rather spend the day going grocery shopping, and tackling some projects around thehouse. But I am lucky enough to have a good job that is paying the bills, so I can't whine about any of it.

Those morning glories by the driveway are very important. They remind me before I leave for work that lthe most beautiful things in life require very little nurturing and with a little planting, take care of themselves.

Summer weekends are as fleeting as the strobe of a firefly. When I get up Saturday morning, the two days appear as discrete, separate chunks of time: Saturday is errands and chores, followed by afternoon leisure and some form of Saturday night entertainment. Sunday is church-going in the morning, often a meal together out, and then lay back summering in the afternoon. But come late Saturday afternoon, I'm often rushing through more "to-do's", with various people needing my time and attention. Early Sunday coffee and the papers abruptly ends with the drill sergeant routine of rousing sleep-ins for church, and by the time we get home, my afternoon is starting to accrete into a block of concrete with layer and layer of chores slipping into the mix.

My kids know I HATE to shop on Sunday...or Saturday... or after work. In fact, pretty much anytime they say the words "mall" or "Old Navy", I shudder. There's something about the acres of clothes, concrete floors, blaring music, and the wants of an unfocused child that make my system shut down. Not a weekend goes by without one child telling me that they've now outgrown their: [insert: bathing suit, shoes, shorts] or they need: [insert phrase: clothes, bike parts, sporting equipment]. I am the Grinch of Shopping, unless they want to go to Borders or the art store, and then I'll race them out the door.

So I MADE my youngest wear the bathing suit that is TOO tight for yet another weekend, and she had to endure the heartache of shorts that rode up her waist, mismatched bathing top and bottom (come on, the top is blue and the bottom is a blue print), even though she had a GIFT certificate to spend. Sigh, I know. I'll do better next weekend, really I will. It's a four day weekend, so I'll have more flex time.

The thing is, we joined this pool. Lat year my sister joined and it seemed that every weekend was sweltering and while she and her family were splashing nearby, we were either stuck in traffic trying to go to the beach, or sitting at home resenting everyone who was swimming in turquoise waters. Consequently, this year, we scraped the money together and joined. It's not cheap. As a result, I've joined the ranks of those I've formerly been annoyed at when they tell you that they can't do [anything] on the weekend because they have to go to "the club", and only have "X" numbers of weekends left.

Unfortunately, I discovered too late that 1) my sister never goes to the club on the weekend, which is the only time I can go; 2) my daughter is bored out of her mind unless she has a friend with her, which never seems to work out, and 3) I hate the club.

All right, I don't hate the club itself. It's pretty, has a lot of pools, and is fairly user-friendly. And it's not just the appearing in public in a bathing suit. I've had decades of that and I'm pretty numb to it by now. No, it's the fact that I am bored out of my mind. Until I can figure out a way to bring the laptop and art supplies with me, it just feels like a big waste of an afternoon. And I fall asleep when I try to read. I tried drawing, but once I did the lifeguard chair, the umbrellas, beach chairs, even some tote bags, there's not much there to draw. It's boring unless you are twelve and are part otter, which my daughter is.

As my sister said: “We’re old now." We don't want to get our hair wet, the water's too cold, and the pool's too crowded. We've become our own aunts, going in to the water only once a day, getting wet and coming back out again. We don't linger, play, time how long we can hold our breath under water, or do the dead man's float until the lifeguard blows her whistle, wondering if we're really dead. Now we swim purposefully, doing a few laps for exercise. We scold children for splashing, climb in using the ladder or stairs, and watch in horror when our kid makes a cannonball leap within our splash zone. When did we morph into these elderly creatures? At least we don't wear pool shoes and a bathing cap, though I do wear the straw hat in to the pool - hey, sun damage, y'know?

Suddenly I'm remembering last vacation: temps in the '90's, beaches packed, waves rough, rocks underfoot, and my sister and I hogging the paltry shade of our umbrellas, with our books and journals falling out of our hands as we snore on the beach, eyes glazed, minds numbed. We exist just to hand out drinks, holler at kids to apply sun block, and fret while they disappear in the surf line. I'd like to sit up on the dune, at a picnic table, iced coffee in one hand, and sketchpad in the other. Preferably wearing shorts and a large t-shirt, instead of my wet suit with sand in the crotch, my old lady skirted wet suit in bright blue (what was I thinking?)

Yes, summers at the beach are a young person's dream. Now I just worry about skin cancer and sharks. I can't let myself relax past the wave line. I just keep obsessing on how I am going to get out of the water, past the crashing waves, the undertow, and the rocks that cut up my feet. I really don't want to have my husband haul me out. Really. I'm not my Aunt Lena. I don't have a bathing cap with a big, rubbery flower glued to the side of it. Just a big straw hat with a polka dot ribbon. If you can't tell the difference, you're mad!

Here at Home

I've been reading "The Pine Island Paradox" by Kathleen Dean Moore, who is a nature writer and chair of the philosophy department at Oregon State. She writes beautifully in the tradition of Annie Dillard, integrating her family and personal life into the wilds of Oregon that she inhabits for several months in the summertime. Intriguingly, she also writes that she lives in town, close enough to her neighbors to hear the water pump on their fountain twenty-four hours a day and to smell their dryer sheets when they do the wash. She actually owns land twenty miles out of town, but has never made the move to build there, feeling tied to living in a university town. She wonders whether she would be a better writer if she lived in view of a waterfall rather than hearing an artificial one, and whether living in a forest instead of camping in one would imbue her words with greater depth and elegance.

Her conclusion was most comforting to me, another homeowner who can smell her neighbor's dryer sheets and spend Saturday morning shutting the windows to the din of leaf blowers and power sprayers. She concludes that she is better off where she is and issues a plea for more nature writers not to abandon the cities and towns where they are so needed:

"But sometimes (just sometimes) I wish my writer friends would come back to the towns they left behind when it all got too crowded and sad. We know how beautiful the uninhabited places can be, and how precious, but what about the rest? When writers move away because they can't stand the bare-ass hills, they make people think you can leave destruction behind. When they write about nature out there, it becomes that much harder to remember the nature nearby."

Then she issued a plea, a plea which I feel deeply about:

"Sometimes I think I might call up my writer friends who have moved out of town. Come home, I would say, and write about the clear-cut hillsides and the halogen-faded nights. Come home and write about the logging families fighting for the right to destroy their own livelihoods, or the virtual reality of children blinking on and off in video arcades. fight for the close-in places as you fight for what is wild and good. Show your faithful readers that it's possible to connect deeply and meaningfully to the land, without living by the pond. Show them it's possible to suck the marrow out of life in the dry, brittle bones of the towns. Isn't this also a worthy calling? - to learn to live deliberately in neighborhoods while there are still a few essential facts left. And to remember, when we come to die, that in whatever place we have lived, we have lived in the natural world."

Isn't this just what many bloggers do? Several sites immediately come to mind: Hoarded Ordinaries, Fragments of Floyd, Cassandra Pages, Views of the Northeast, A Life In Wales, Five Acres With a View, and more too numerous to mention, many of which are in my blogroll. The best of the bloggers, for my tastes anyway, are those that incorporate the place they live in and their personal lives, weaving their perambulations into wholecloth.

My own prejudice is for those writers and artists who record the mug that holds the coffee with as much grace as the twenty varieties of wild grasses that line the hiking path. Over the years, I tried to pin down how to be a nature writer who does not live in the country or, more specifically, a writer who depicts a life of family, work, and play, in the suburbs and the city, with the same vividness of particulars as an Annie Dillard or a Hannah Hinchman. As I fumbled my way through my journals with this intent in mind, Danny Gregory went ahead and did it brilliantly in his book, Everyday Matters. I'd often started a journal with the intent, too specific and too intense, of recording in words and art a whole year of my family's life. Danny did it famously, having the artistic vision and free of the heaviness of my linear approach.

There are two sisters in California who turn their lives into art and share their abilities through classes and workshops. Sisters on Sojourn is a beautiful site and the sisters are just a little mad and quirky and will show you how to use anything to record your life: shoes, hangers, and the more traditional journals as well.

There's Wild Yorkshire, who came up with the coolest name for his small print run of watercolor journals of his tramps in England: "Sketchbook Sushi".

And then there's Michael Nobbs site, a writer and artist who was diagnosed with a chronic disease, which caused his life to shrink to the very small world of life home and studio. Yet, within those four walls, and sometimes not being able to even get off the couch, he draws the small objects and records the tiny happenings and creates a view into a most interesting life.

I wish I could say I was a nature writer. I have hundreds of books of nature writing lining my shelves. I admit to a great ignorance of the names and scientific aspects of most of the natural world. I can write about the church bells pealing the hours over my city, the bells that accompanied my waking hours from childhood to now, the bells that rang over my wedding, my father's funeral, my first communion, and are the harmony to my ordinary days. But I don't know the names of the magnificent weeping tree that shadows my neighbor's side yard. I can tell you that the branches are pendulous and wave in the wind like the elegant arms of dancers at rest. I can describe the beautiful variegated bark of the few Dutch elms that have survived in my neighborhood, but I don't know the source of the disease that ravaged them over the past thirty years. I do know that when I go to Cape Cod and sit on Nauset Beach, I feel the peace of the Lord fill my soul and my mind empties and becomes as vast as the ocean spread before me. I am a writer of natural things, of homemade things, of artful things, of hard-scaped things, of landscaped things. I am a writer who is most at home on my bed with my laptop in my lap, or with my feet walking the hard-packed low-tide line, picking up jingle shells to string on chain that I will wear winter long to remind myself of the smell of the sea and the lightness of the first-morning sun.

Sum, sum, summertime's top 10

Summer has officially started and I am buoyed by the long, long days of light and warm weather. Do you think if kids went to school in the summer, the season would still have such mythical allure? Summer is my favorite season, baring temps over 100 and/or torrential rains. But even cold, wet, rainy summer days are piquant. Think steamer rugs over your legs, the crinkle of wicker chairs, and a stack of books from the library.

So what are your top summertime moments?

1. Anything connected with water - preferably calm ocean, a turquoise pool, or cool lake, in that order.
2. Smell of Coppertone - do they add essence of coconut?
3. The orange grease of Bain de Soleil. Sigh. My teenage magic potion.
4. Reflectors, preferably homemade from double albums (remember those?) and aluminum foil.
5. The Good Humor Man's chocolate eclair with the candy middle. (My youngest has inherited my ability to hear an ice cream truck from a mile away.)
6. A tuna fish sandwich, handful of cherries, and a warm Coke, eaten under the umbrella, my feet in the sand.
7. Being forced to learn to dive in order to compete in the swim meet at the end of the season at the city beach, conquering my fear of going head first into the water, coming in almost last, and being glad that I would never have to dive again.
8. Camping in the pines in Maine, with my best friend's family, which involved many trips to the ladies room to sneak cigarettes, telling people we were teen agers there on our own, and hanging out by the payphone after dinner so I could ostensibly call my family, but really be trolling for boys (there were none!).
9. Coming home from our annual trip to Jones Beach, and lying in bed at night, still feeling the waves lifting me up and down on my bed.
10. Huge, empty days in which I swallowed books and candy whole, stayed up so late reading that I watched the dawn come up over my neighbor's house, rode my bike around the lake ten times, then built houses of cards on the living room Oriental rug. Having time to burn, what luxury, what folly, what youth.

Let me explain about the lack of artwork. I haven't had time to scan new stuff in, and I haven't been doing much new stuff with all the family events that have finally ended. So I hope to get back into the habit of art once more and I'll continue uploading new files in a little while. I didn't think I should post without putting up artwork, but then I thought it was stupid not to post because I didn't have any art ready, so I am just going with the flow. Summer is not the time for "have-to's" as Susan has reminded me.

Last night Stan and I went for a ride around one of the wealthy villages bordering the Sound. Then we did go fr our walk, discovering a park we've never explored. It's a delightful string of tiny islands connectws by foot bridges and paths. We watched the sunset over the Sound, and felt the wind change and a front come in. As we were leaving, we paused on a plank bridge to watch a heron gracefully pick its way through the tideline, walking like a hieroglyph in search of food.

Our tour through the neighboring town is one of our favorite evening things to do. The town winds sinuously along the coastline of the Sound. On your left is water, bright sunshine, and colorful sails flitting across steel blue water. On your right is the gathering dusk rolling over neat lawns, pots of pink geraniums, cedar-gabled houses, and the wealth of Wall Street.

When we came in, I was subsumed with lust for clapboards and salty breezes and crushed oyster shells. I felt the flush of story pumping through my veins. The third long-neglected novel has been brought out to air like quilts hanging on a clothesline on the first spring morning. I am thirteen and back on my bicycle, crossing the line between rich and poor, and suddenly the story is picked up again and sweetly singing as my summer love.

You know that feeling of laissez faire that you possess when you first go back to work after some time off? Is it possible to keep that going? Today I never even went to the office because they had me double booked for court and deposition, so actually I still feel pretty relaxed. I shudder to think what is waiting for me on my desk, but that will wait till tomorrow afternoon.

The problem with work is that it's so, well, every day. In terms of stressful law jobs, mine comes in spurts. The stress is from volume more than from content. We're pretty specialized, so there aren't a lot of surprises in what we do, just tons and tons of it.

I do wonder if I'd be any happier working full time in art or at writing. I'm a pretty obsessive person, and I know I would work myself into a sweat over an art project or writing deadline as much as I do in my profession. And what fun is that?

I don't have the discipline to be a full time at home anything. There's too much to do around the house, too many demands, and too many diversions. So I'll just be grateful that it's summer, the days are long, I have a screen porch that makes me feel like I'm on vacation, and most of my "have-to's" are done until August.

Tonight I am going to make my husband go to the beach after dinner. We;ll bring sweaters and books and sit on the bench on the pier. He'll balk and tell me about the Yankees being on and his back hurting and I'm going to take him by the hand and drive him there. I think I'll bring a watercolor pad and do a bunch of backgrounds that I need for an art project.

Go count the summer stars.

OMG, it's 12:40 on a sunny, cool, breezy Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting on my bed reading blogs. But before you tell me to get a life (and what are YOU doing reading this blog), I'll clarify by saying that I've been up since 8:00, cleaned the first floor's party detritus, unloaded and loaded the dishwasher and did the first handwash of things that can't go in the dishwasher.

I've also had a piece of berry shortcake, two brownies, two slices of the giant sandwiches we served (eggplant, mozzarell and tomato, and turkey and roast beef). I am planning on having an alka seltzer, then moving on to the ranch dip, crudites, and yes, some more brownies with a slice of Napoleon cake for a chaser.

The hubby is satisfied with drinking the rest of the beer and watching sports on TV for Father's Day. The big kids are still in bed and the young one is supposed to be studying for her math final but is playing basketball and I'm pretending to ignore the sound of it so I can ignore that she is not studying.

A perfect day, no?

The party was very cool. Mystery Man and his band played in the backyard, which meant all the little kids pretty much stayed out there until my 5 year old nephew and my cousin's 5 year old son came tearing around the dining room just as I was carrying the sterno and boiling water contraption to the sink (they learned quite a few dirty words in various languages from Auntie). Then my neighbor came over at 7:00 p.m., while the sun was still shining mind you, to complain that my son's bad had been playing off and on for 4 hours and "he'd had enough". Excuse me? This from the people who have late night parties with loud music until midnight and play drinking games around a bonfire in their backyard? We vacillated between telling the kids to take a break and telling the neighbors to take a hike. This is the second major party we've had in two years and the first with music. So if you want to entertain in your backyard on the Saturday afternoon when we are having a party, I think you can just move your party indoors. Big Bronx cheer across the fence.

Other than that, it was a great party. We all got sentimental over the scrapbook I made for Chris. My cousin who was married last summer announced she is pregnant, and all the little cousins were just a knot of pulsating mischief circling the house for several hours.

A good time was had by all. And now I must sleep.

Hallo!

Hallo! It's me, waving to you from the coolness of my air conditioned bedroom where I've popped in between errands and party chores. Mystery Man's grad party is in a few hours. The weather is iffy - it's cooler but cloudy and it may rain. Hmmpf! I'm pretending there's no chance of thunderstorms and setting up outside. Otherwise, I'll have 35 people standing shoulder to shoulder in two rooms. In the meanwhile, there are older children who are ignoring my cries for help and lolling in their beds. The littlest served Mass for her first time this morning, so we've been up since 7:00. I could really use a nap.....

I'll post more after the party, or probably tomorrow morning. Have a fun Saturday everyone! Oh, I made half my son's scrapbook which is better than none. He's getting it as is with the last page entitled "Under Construction."

Bloom Where You Are Planted

Not an original idea on my part, but still a very good platitude to follow. Yesterday I chafed a little against all the things I "had" to do. I was rested from one day off and ready to take on a big project, like sewing, painting, or escaping the house and going to the movies all day. My plans were thwarted by a small, brown-haired girl who woke up early and appeared with two Social Studies textbooks and a battered notebook and a final exam to study for. Instead of the Stepford Wives or The Weeping Camel, I was study partner, coach, food purveyor, quizzer, and consoler. Oh, and yeah, I was drill sargeant a few times too. But thank god I had the day off or I would have had to come home because 12 year olds need somebody to be around when they tackle a semester's worth of facts and concepts beginning with The Old/New Stone Age up to Medieval Times. (I didn't know there was an old and new Stone Age. I also didn't remember what the Punic Wars were, who succeeded Caesar and what a vassal was. I do now.)

We were all home at least part of the day yesterday - Mystery Man needed me to go to the bank, the Princess was up early and hanging around watching TV, my little nephew stayed for dinner. In short, it was a typical Mom at home day. And once I stopped sputtering about all the things I was going to do, I enjoyed it. I managed a half hour at Starbucks with the New York Times and I began Mystery Man's scrapbook after dinner. I was there for whomever needed me and I went with the flow.l

Sometimes that's all you can ask for.

10 Ways to Trick Myself into Thinking That I Don't Work Full Time

Day One of my three days off. I'm sitting on my screened porch at 9:30 at night and blogging. It's gotten cool and my little dragonfly lights are on and it's very seasonal on the porch. Stan and my sister Maria are watching The Godfather I in the living room and doing the dialogue (tres annoying!)

Tonight was Mystery Man's graduation. My big ol' nonchalant son came to find us in the crowd and his eyes were tearing up as he hugged each one of us. (You know I was blubbering away as soon as I saw him wipe his eyes.) I still can't believe he's graduated high school, turning 18 Friday, and is off to college in August.

This morning I was still wiped out from the last few days. So my two younger sisters and I had a leisurely breakfast at the diner. Then two of us drove to the stamp store and bought some much needed supplies (ha!)

Then I came home and planted geraniums and nasturtiums in the planter by the front door. I planted blue morning glories in a big pot by the porch. The morning glories are already growing up an iron sculpture and I hope by July they'll have covered it and I'll see beautiful blue blooms each morning.

I was so relaxed today that I called my husband and told him I was resigning from work on Monday. (I can't print the expletives that spewed forth.) But really, isn't it crazy to live with so much stress and tension when just a day off makes you feel like you've lost ten years and have all the leisure in the world?

So I really have to make changes in my life to accomodate the need to bring in an income and still remain sane.

1. Get up a half hour early - yes, seems more stressful but listen - make coffee and toast at home, get the paper off the lawn, and sit on the screened porch for a half hour.

2. Get out of the office rut. Stop buying lunch and eating in the conference room where we just discuss work. Get out of the office even if I sit in my car. I'm still looking for access to the Hudson River where I can eat and sit.

3. Get out of the house after dinner. Walk around my neighborhood. Explore the 200 year old cemetery on the corner. Ride down to the beach.

4. Start investing myself in this yard. While I was puttering around in the garden, I realized that I hardly ever go into the backyard and practically never into the garage. (strongly linked to the incredible mess made by Mystery Man). Hell I could still describe for you every square inch of yard in our other three houses. I've really held myself back here, whether from fear we'll still lose this house, or depression that we left so much behind. Time to kick myself in the butt and get outside.

5. Get out into the wild. There's a nature study woods a short walk from here. I know there's a path that goes about a mile to the reservoir. I haven't been in there since I was in high school. I wouldn't go in alone, but on a Saturday, with some company, it'd be a nice walk.

6. Get a bicycle. My god, I am so sedentary! And I used to ride my bike everywhere when I was in school. Biking was our main form of entertainment and sport when we were growing up. We used to ride down the hill, around the lake, across the brook and back, about ten times a days. Nothing is better than the quiet sound of the tires hissing on the pavement and the wind in your ears. Travel and solitude, two companions I miss.

7. Why aren't I listen to music anymore? At one point this afternoon, I put on a CD of Gershwin favorites and laid down on the sofa. Lena Horne began singing "Someone to Watch Over Me". I felt blissful, actually blissful, incredulous that I was lying down in the middle of the day listening to music!

8. Get to the water get to the water get to the water get to the water.... enuf said.

9. Stop obsessing over what I HAVE to do. I wake up with my heart racing, stomach churning, and near tears almost every morning. Not natural. Nope. Last night I dreamt that I had to argue an appeal in front of every judge I knew and I didn't have the briefs or even know what the case was about. The night before I dreamed that I had to try a case in front of the judge I worked for and I didn't know what the case was even about and he'd find me out for the fake I am.

10. Get my butt into the art room and make something. Now. No excuses. Clean it up and sit there. Play with all this crap I have. Stop whining. Just do it.

I'm watching Sex and the City, trying to figure out what they've cut and bleeped. So far I've seen the entire nude backside of Miranda, so I think they're not treating this show like Howard Stern's radio show. How exactly does the FCC work? If you're pretty and on TV you can show your self nude, but if you're on the radio, ugly like a stork, you can't say certain words? This country is so screwed up about so many things. I'm really entertaining the idea of moving to Toronto.

Anyway - apropos of nothing - how is everyone? I've been remiss in not writing more often. I have to get through this week of award programs, graduation, party, etc., and I'll have time to breathe. I have off the new three days and they're turning into days of non-stop errands. And to think I almost didn't take them off! So tonight I worked past seven to finish a ton of stuff and came home with just enough energy to shove a bowl of fried rice into my mouth.

I promise to get back on track this week. More writing, more art. And you? Are you being faithful? My stats and comments are down. My writer's ego is slowly being deflated, and it's such a big balloon of a thing. Why do I need so much attention and approbation and commendation? Is it a "tion" need?

Back soon, ta-ta!

So far, this weekend's been pretty ideal. Friday night I collapsed early and watched mindless TV like What Not To Wear. My husband brought me Baskin Robbin's Cheesecake in a cup with hor fudge (what a man!), which followed our "dinner" of cheese spread, crackers, and pigs in a blanket (can you say "we need to go to the grocery store"?) Saturday we did errands, I picked up my new funky glasses that my sister says makes me look like Lina Wertmuller (a compliment I think), and we bitched about the fact that yet another CVS has opened in town and now makes it impossible to get a space to go to the dry cleaners and Starbucks.

Later we drove upcounty and went to our second grad party.This one was on the Hudson at a beautiful park. It was a delight to spend the afternoon in the sunshine, eating and drinking wine, and watching the sailboats tack up and down the bay. Afterwards we drove over to the nieghborhood where we bought our first house and lived for ten years. It's a quirky, little neighborhood off a lake, made up of summer cottages and year-round homes. I miss living up in the wilds in summer, but in winter I'm glad not to deal with an hour long commute over icy parkways.

Today was a day where the front porch got painted, (yay!), the screen door got installed in the kitchen (double yay!), Julia painted the old trunk on the porch (hooray!) and I finished a submission and found a place to order pillow forms on line (JC Penney of all places).

Delight of all delights is that I hace a two day work week. I'm taking off Wed - Fri for various reasons. I intend to do some sewing and cover the pillow forms, make some delectable cookies for my son's party, go to a dr's appointment, and crack the whip over Julia's head so she studies for her sixth grade "finals".

A very good week!

Table for One

A sunny, bright, crisp summer day in the Northeast. Early afternoon brings the sounds of the neighborhood coming alive after a week of cold and rainy weather. Hedge clippers and grass trimmers are whirring. A metal rake makes long sweeps along a sidewalk. My daughter's CD player floats music out her window down to mine. Stan has pulled all the flower pots out onto the biig picnic table and is giving them all a drink.

The round, redwood table is more than a little wobbly. It needs another brace under it after the cold, hard winter that it endured. The table has lived in many houses. My father brought it home about 30 years ago where it fit perfectly on their screen porch. We ate all our meals on the porch from May to October, weather permitting. This was the first table that all 7 of us, plus dates, husbands, friends, or whatever the configuration of people that night, could sit around comfortably. My mother had an aluminum lazy Susan that sit in the middle of the table and held the napkins, salt and pepper, and other condiments. My father did the New York Times crossword puzzle at the table each Sunday. At night, my parents played Scrabble there, using the lazy Susan to rotate the board to each other. Many nights I went to sleep listening the sound of my father shuffling the cards and the slap of each one as he played solitaire late at night.

When my mother sold the house after my Dad's death, I took the picnic table up to my house in the country. Shortly thereafter, we moved to California, and the table was rolled onto the moving van, and took up residence on the roofed patio in Fresno. We ate outside all the time there, with the table next to the waterfall by the pool. The backyard was a Shangrila of pool and fruit trees and roses and herbs. The next move for the table was to Memphis where it filled in the el space between the house and garage. It was the perfect nook for the table, which now had a big green umbrella. We entertained many friends around it, with barbecues and pool parties.

By now the table was showing its age. The extreme heat and cold and outdoor year round living took its toll. We gently had it packed up for the move back to New York and Stan did a lot of rehabilitation on it, including a fresh coat of redwood stain each year. The first time we all sat around in it again in my New York backyard, I knew the table had come full circle back to its hometown. It was a joy to have my mother over and for us all to gather and break bread around our old family table.

The table is a little bit more wobbly than can be repaired now. It shakes and has a piece that hangs down below the surface. We don't advise anyone to sit there and chow down lest their dish end up in their lap. It is aged and worn, but still serviceable and graceful. The rest of the family reflects the same aging process and we aren't about to get rid of any of them! So we'll slap a few coats of stain on it, brace the top, tighten the nuts and bolts in the benches and get another umbrella to perk it up. Next Saturday is my son's graduation party and we have to see how many cousins we can fit around it. And leave a little space on the bench for the memory of my Dad.

Sorry about the quiet of this past week. It is Friday evening and I am home and wiped out. The extra family events and increased work load have turned me into a zombie. I promise I"ll be back to posting later tonight or tomorrow. Everybody go have a margarita on me!!

Bead by Bead

It's the type of week where every day is a list of commitments, events, and heavy job responsibilities. When I leave the house, a trail of paper follows me in the form of lists spilling out of my purse, scattering like falling leaves in my wake. All of the extracurricular activities are fun, but carry the stress of extra duties and the need to be in certain places at certain times.

Monday night my mother and I took a class in the peyote stitch. We learned how to do "off-loom weaving" and created a little band we can wear as a bracelet. The stitch is very easy to learn once you get it started and I understand it is the base for many more complex projects. I only had to give my piece to the instructor once to figure out how I got a big lump in it (I figured it out myself the second time). It was cool to watch the dark blue, green, and copper beads line up and become a woven fabric, but I doubt I'll be doing much of it on my own. I don't have the eyes or hands for such painstaking work. My 78-year-old mother, however, was beading away while I spent the last half hour of the class glassy-eyed, thumbing through magazines and eating peanut M&Ms.

Last night I worked late and missed my daughter's last softball game. My husband was a coach and it was a difficult season, with accusations that the league commissioner unfairly loaded his own team with all the experienced pitchers. In the middle of all the adult wrangling, the twelve-year-old girls were sad and demoralized as they left the first playoff without a single run. My daughter came home near tears, tired and hot. She had the only hit of the game but was thrown out when she tried to steal third.

Tonight is "The Prom". Mystery Man finally laid bare all the plans at ten o'clock last night. He added an extra wrinkle to my day as I have to run to the bank after court and come home and give him the money he suddenly needs for the clothes he is going to buy at the last minute - where? he doesn't know - for the "after prom" club they'll all go to. He wants to drive his 1972 Nova out to the beach tomorrow morning. I don't know what to worry about more, the car or his driving on major highways and over bridges. So I guess I just won't worry about any of it. (Serenity now!)

Although I haven't had a moment to do any in hand art work, I've been exploring Photoshop and learning how to digitally manipulate my own drawings, such as the one above and the image accompanying the last post.

While my head is spinning with things to do, my heart is companionably sitting and beading with my Mom, listening to the little clicks of beeds on needle and the little "ouch!" from me as I manage to pierce my finger one more time and add another row to the fabric of our lives.

Learning How to See

I belong to several large art and journaling email lists, some of which I've been a member of, or helped start up, over six years ago. We were very young and precocious when some of these lists began. We were also very idealistic, generous, and enthusiastic to a fault. Although the lists have matured, evolved, and some retired in favor of newer, fresher progeny, the lists have survived and become an interesting mix of experienced artists and new ones.

Some questions are perennial, like what is gesso, which glue is the best to adhere>>>>>(fill in the blank), where do you buy blank journals, what paper is best for all media, what colors should I buy to make up my watercolor palette, and so on. While techniques and tools are always fodder for informative threads, the most exciting conversations to witness are those where the new artist is drawn into the interplay between life and art. Simply put, the question that is asked most often by newcomers is: What do you journal about? What do you put in your art journal? Where do you find your ideas?

It's easy to sit back and say: "Look around you - how can you NOT find something to draw, to sketch, to collage, to paint, and to write about. I've been keeping a narrative journal since I was in college. I've been keeping an art journal for about six years. When I first made the transition, I literally did not know what came first: the words or the art. How did you find time to do both? Do you paint the background and then write, or write and then add imagery? My friend, Jo, recognizing an obsessive compulsive when she saw one, suggested that I paint the pages with some neutral or light colors, then put a border on each page. So I did as suggested, and carefully cut out images I liked from magazines, like clocks and keys and watches, birds, and flowers and neatly pasted them on the edges of the pages.

After a few weeks, I got brave and started doing some sketching as the centerpiece of the page, adding rubber stamps, little notes and comments in the corners. Emboldened by some "good' pages, I started using Lumiere metallic paints and markers and ripped and torn images for a collage. I stamped and embossed, scattered glitter and pearl ex, and even tied fibers to the pages. I started painting heavy watercolor paper and brown kraft paper, then ripping it up and glued it to the page as a background on which I stamped and painted. In short, I'd gotten the hang of it.

Like any other pursuit, I soon had a roomful of supplies and an ever expanding list of what I "needed" to art journal. The list was endless:

tags
optical lenses
brads
eyelets
wire
copper tape
buttons
stickers
rubber stamps
chalks
pearl ex
rub -n-buff
textiles
transfers
fibers
maps
vintage images
old books
lace
beads
threads
acrylics
watercolors
metallic paints
glazes
art papers
vellum
ribbons
found images
tissue paper
glitter
gel medium
glue sticks
sobo
charms
brass tags
copper mesh
jewelry findings
watch parts
pitt pens
gel pens
markers
charcoal
pastels
crayons
portfolio crayons
oil pastels
dorland's wax
beeswax
alcohol
metal stamps
embossing powder
and on
and on
and on.

Now, I'm pretty sure I own everything I've listed, and then some. I have journals bursting with paint-soaked and heavily embellished pages. And I love everything about all this "stuff". I love buying it, storing it, and looking at it on my shelves. But I don't think I've used 10% of it in the last six months. Lately, my urge to spend hours and hours on journal pages has weakened as I have less and less time to spend on making art. My art needs to be portable and easily accessible. I don't have the time to sit at my art desk. I do most of my journaling in bed or out and about on weekends. I've whittled down what I "need" to a spiral-bound journal that takes most media, a thick and a thin black pens, some watercolor pencils, the Portfolio crayons, and a thick and a thin watercolor brush. I also write less and less in my journal. Imagery has replaced my need for long paragraphs. I've learned to be pithy or to use one great rubber stamp. (The blog pretty much is my narrative journal and I've succumbed to the pleasure of writing quickly on a keypad.)

More importantly, somewhere along the way I stopped wondering "what should I draw or write about today" and began to just do it. It took a really long time for me to reach that point. I was tied up with perfectionism and mistrusted what I thought was artful and interesting. Nowadays it all "clicks" more often than not, though I still have my days of fumbling around and ripping up pages. I learned the art of "learning to see". I found themes in my art and writing everywhere as I learned to trust my instincts. And the very nice part about it was when I felt the art enriching my writing. I found images and motifs popping up everywhere in my writing and my descriptive phrases were not labored but flow easily from the pen (keypad).

I couldn't have gotten to this point without started with those neatly painted neutral backgrounds and carefully cut out magazine images. I needed to use the twenty kinds of paint, accumulate the hundreds of rubber stamps and dozens of stamp pads, and pile buttons, charms, and crystals in boxes and tins. My evolution was a process, not a destination. I am still evolving, still learning and playing and trying new media.

So I rarely sit down and stare at the blank page and wonder what to write and draw. I'm a little like Pavlov's dog now and when I get out the journal and pen case, my hand begins to itch to fill up the page.
If you are a new artist, overwhelmed with choices and lacking in skill, I say try it all, buy what you can afford, and play, play, play.

Eventually you will find the thing that turns you on and you will simplify your approach to art. You will find yourself using the same media over and over and understanding all its nuances. Best of all, you will begin to express yourself in your own symbols and imagery and become the creator of your own vision.

I've been so good about not going into any art stores since I took the last class in early May my sister. I haven't bought a thing since then. (Of course, I have been buying books like crazy, so just goes to show that an obssesive personality will just switch addictions if pushed. )

So now I am about to start making a scrapbook for my son. I don't feel as motivated to do something as complicated as what I made for my daughter. I'm thinking about doing something completely different, more contemporary and cutting edge. I'll let you know how it's going and maybe a few peeks at it after I do it.

I am gorging on books for the last two weeks. I finally ready Interpreter of Maladies and thought almost every story was superb. Her new novel, her first, The Namesake, I didn't like very much. the first half is very good, setting the stage for .....well, not much of anything. She's a wonderful writer, incredibly good at depicting the assimilation of the Indian people into our culture and the push and pull between the generations as they become more assimilated into America. Her details, her nuances, and her depiction of relationships are always right on. But the book seems to be a giant prologue, one that leads to nothing. I felt like I was just beginning to see something happen that the main character would react to and open up, and it was over.

I am also reading Ann Patchett's Truth and Beauty, which is about her friendship with the author Lucy Grealy, the author of Autobiography of a Face. The book begins with their beginning their friendship at the Iowa Writer's Group. As a writer, the behind-the-scenes of the prestigious programs to which they belong are fascinating. Equally heartening is the rise and fall of their careers, the waitress jobs and despair they both experienced. It's a little on the surface right now and I hope she begins to reveal more of herself as the book goes on. She got married and divorced and mentions it in one paragraph and I had to go back and read through it again to see if I missed some other passage about it. I didn't.

Tomorrow, Sunday, is going to be a sewing day for me. I'm still itching to get my hands into some fabric and paints and pens. I had an idea about using up some quilt blocks that my quilting group made for me ten years ago when I moved away. There's no way I'll ever make them into a traditional quilt, but last night I started thinking it would be cool to make them into pages of a book and write about living on the lake in our funky, international neighborhood. so that's tomorrow's project..

Namaste!

Publishing or Perish

I really don't know any writers who would rather be unread than read. I know some writers who don't want to be published, and I think the two are different animals. I know artists who pour their heart and soul into their work but turn crimson at the thought of showing it to anyone. I know many professionals who sing, or act, or quilt, and keep this artistic nature a private, personal activity that they do not share with their business colleagues.

Recently, I had several people ask me where I could publish some of the posts I write. I felt very complimented by their interest and their praise. Yet, I haven't done much to pursue publication beyond my blog. I've submitted a few pieces to some competitions, looked up the guidelines for a few literary journals, made some queries to a couple of magazines. The truth is that I have a full time job, a family, a house, a mortgage, and very limited time.

Even in terms of publicity or exposure for the blog, I have very little idea of how to go about it. Beyond linking to directories that I can ping, I haven't even had the time to understand how to do a RSS feed. I promised my sister artwork for a new banner which she kindly will make me, and I haven't had a chance in six days to even go into the art room, let alone make anything. When you come right down to it, I'd rather write the essay and paint the picture then spend an evening researching how to publish it.

But the other night, I finally got around to seriously writing a piece for a competition that had a deadline. In 24 hours. I'd known about it for around a month. I'd written some tentative few paragraphs, journaled about it, and had it on my mind for several weeks. I just couldn't get into the meat of it and what I'd written was really pedantic.

Instead of throwing the notebook against the wall, I just let it simmer for a week or two. I trusted in my own creative process, which is completely organic and cannot be rushed. I knew that eventually I'd reach "the zone" where I would be able to express the heart of the matter and not a how-to article. I stayed up very late and wrote and rewrote and was able to finish a satisfactory piece in time to email it before the deadline.

Now I know that I ended up with something very different than anything I started out to write. And I also know that it doesn't really meet the requirements of the theme for the contest. But it didn't matter because I was more excited about the really good first draft I'd completed that will the spin off for a piece that is very different from anything I've written before.

So maybe it wouldn't hurt to research my publication venues. Maybe it will push me to write longer, more sustained, more complex pieces. Maybe I'll get a collection of essays published out of it. I don't know. But I do know that this blog has become a lifeblood to me. It feeds my soul in ways that you cannot imagine.
The thought of it remains with me all day, like a silk camisole I wear under my starchy suits, or the worn, satin quilted corner of the baby blanket that my daughter keeps under her pillow and holds at night before she goes to bed. The blog is my "secret" delight, a paradise of words and images that has no theme requirements, no word count, no editorial direction other than my own. My readers are not happening across my article because it is published in a magazine that had a pretty cover. The people who read this blog read it strictly to hear what I have to say. You have no idea how heady that is for a writer! I am eternally grateful to all of you who read my blog, including the silent core, the faithful commentators, the referring addresses that appear each day, even the crazy searches that pick me out for "spring prayers" and "journal sluts".

Without you, I would just be another middle aged woman in a dark suit and ugly shoes, carrying a briefcase full of papers and heart full of stones.

Endings/Beginnings

As the month of June progresses, it swells like a pregnant woman with the ripe fruit of endings. The days become longer and warmer as we gather at concerts, performances, recitals, and graduations, noting the last time we do this, or the last time we attend that. Over the next three Saturdays, we will attend the graduation parties of three sons: Michael,who is graduating high school, and is the only child of Rae and Sylvio; Alex,who is graduating 8th grade and is the youngest child of Maria and Rich; and lastly, my son, who is graduating high school.

Every May and June brings this flurry of milestone events. It brings to mind the many "endings" I have passed through and reminds me that graduation day is also known as "commencement", as in life commencing, finally and irrevocably. When I was a junior in college, I stood at commencement and watched my senior friends graduating and was filled with sadness that they would no longer be around the next year. It seemed inconceivable that the world we had spun out of dreams and desires was coming to an end. But by the next year when it was time for me to walk across the stage, I was dry-eyed and delirious that all the hoops had been gone through and all the hurdles cleared and I was getting out!

To ease the transition a little, I accepted a job on campus for the summer. Nothing cures you of the longing to remain in the safe environs of school than staying on campus after all your friends are gone, the parties stop, and you are working at a desk processing housing applications. It was melancholy to see the dining hall empty, the snack bar filled with just a handful of souls, and all faculty offices closed. I had several friends who were on the "five year plan", having changed majors and needing more credits. I knew some of them were just delaying the inevitable, trying to remain in the cocoon of all night cram sessions, endless beers at the Rat, even the embryonic comfort of the library with its endless stacks of books and quiet earnestness. I remember one professor, a great woman who who was our advisor, taking one friend aside and telling her to quit fooling around, get her credits done, and get out.

It's hard to do that sometimes. Both to say it and to hear it. This friend had lost her father while at school, and we had all gathered round her and cushioned her to help her bear the unbearable. Graduating for her meant another loss, another leave taking into an unknowable future. But it had to be said. Marilyn knew that if she didn't tell her, that J. would spend another year spinning her wheels about course selections, and crushes, and the school paper, and all the things that had kept her from facing the cold hard truth that she was 21 and fatherless and about to enter the world.

I miss Marilyn. I would like to have an advisor now. Perhaps that's why people keep therapists in their lives for so long. I know there are "life coaches" out there, but I can't quite accept their authority or legitimacy. No, I want a college advisor with a course load, office hours, and a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose. I want her to look over my permanent record and tell me what I have to "take" for next year:

"I see you haven't taken that jury trial yet. You need to do it this fall because it may not be available next spring."

"You also need about 12 phys ed credits or you won't be able to graduate into the next decade."

"And you need to declare your second-half of life major. What will it be, law or writing or art?"

"You've used up all your electives and your short three credits in finance. How about taking a look at your own and doing it as an independent study?"

Yes, it would be nice to have someone I trust, someone who has taught me, graded me, and read all my papers, map out the next four years of my life for me. I'd love to give that responsiblity over to someone else, someone who could guide me through the core curriculum of advancing middle age, chronic health issues 101, and romance novels in the second decade of marriage.

Any takers?

What I Still Don't Know

My son, known on the pages of this blog as "Mystery Man", is turning 18 and graduating high school in two weeks. Like most parents, I wonder where the time went and how he morphed from a little guy playing with Leggos into the big lug who spent the day yesterday in the trunk of his car drilling holes into the window ledge for his car speakers. However, I doubt that he gives it much thought. He's very content, sure of himself, and basically happy to remind me that he could bench press me if I get in his way. And then he laughs and gives me a little punch to the shoulder which is 18-year-old-boy-speak for "luv ya, Ma!"

When I was pregnant with this second child, we found out we were having a boy at the last ultrasound exam. The technician asked us if we wanted to know the sex and since I was due in 3 weeks, we said sure, why not. We were floored when she said we were having a boy. I don't know why we thought it was impossible, but since we had just had a daughter 20 months before, and I came from a family of five girls, we had pretty much dismissed the possibility. We didn't even have any boys’ names picked out. I remember leaving the facility in an excited daze and teaching my law class that night with my mind wandering and smiling like the cat that ate the canary. As I lectured on easements and prescriptive rights, my mind was trying to wrap around the notion that I was going to be the mother of a boy.

I didn't have a clue how to raise a boy. Lacking brothers, and with only a few male cousins, I had no role models to turn to. Men were basically a mystery to me and I was amazed that I'd managed to hook up with my husband. My personal world was pretty much populated with women, as my husband soon discovered when he and my father would be the only men at a twenty-something gathering on the holidays.

As a charter subscriber to Ms. Magazine, I knew what NOT to do: no sexism, no machismo, no violence, and no guns. Great. But what should replace all this culture chaff? What do we replace all the testosterone insensitivity with? Who would teach him to fish? Why did he have to know how to fish? Would I have to sit through karate lessons? And oh my god, he'd have to be circumcised! I panicked as if I was going to be the mohelim myself. Why didn't I pay attention in childbirth class when the instructor was discussing the controversy over circumcising? (Perhaps because I was falling asleep and dying to go home and eat dinner.) I panicked all the way home and arrived in a dither.

This is when the need for a male and a female parent kicks in. In the midst of my sputtering, my husband reminded me that he had a pretty good idea of how to be both a boy and a man and what they liked and disliked. And he was a great father, very nurturing, very involved. And anytime I felt he was gearing towards that beer-drinking, chest-thumping, tool-wielding caricature, there was my voice and that of my four sisters, two grandmothers, three aunts, and two great aunts to counteract it. .

Right.

Having the first son in a family light on men was an adjustment for everyone. My family knew how to play with a baby girl. Jessica was painting her nails and playing with the piano at 18 months. They gave her their purses to carry around and allowed her to put on lipstick. Baby dolls were ubiquitous and she had great aunts knitting her doll blankets faster than she could burp all those plastic-headed babies.

They didn't have the slightest idea what to do with a boy. Why is he so noisy? Why is he so messy? Gee, he has A Lot of Energy. These were the words that I heard for the first seven years of my son's life. It didn't help that despite all the educational toys that were showered on him by well-meaning aunts, the son only wanted to play with the antenna of the portable telephone and to use anything as a hammer. He had a strong attachment to anything metal that made noise, like ashtrays that could be banged; the vacuum that roared, and of course, anything with wheels that could "zoom".

He got up in the morning and hit the ground running, only stopping when his head fell into his plate of mac and cheese at dinner. Literally. Fell into the plate. Snoring. That's when my knowledge was confirmed that males were a very different species. He loved building things and his Leggo sets began to rival his older sister's Barbies. A shoeless walk across any room in the dark was a life-threatening risk. Have you ever stepped on a Leggo with bare feet? The pain is indescribable. Think little plastic piece with many sharp bumps. He loved paints and crayons and swings and the sandbox and water and dirt and mud.

In short, he loved it all and we just ran behind him, keeping him away from electrical plugs and busy streets. He managed to get through his childhood unscathed and took to school easily. Other than an incredible lack of organizational skills (read: Oscar Madison), and the proclivity towards bringing home electronic junk from other people's trash piles, we can't complain much about anything he does.

But I still don't know anything about boys.

What is this innate drive to drive? What's with the attraction to fender and flash? Why do the father and son worship at the altar of giant lawn tractors? And why do homes that house boys ALWAYS end up with walls that twitch and floors that thump to the bass of an electric guitar playing Stairway to Heaven? Why is a 32 year old, rusty, falling apart Chevy Nova way cooler than a brand new red Jeep? How come he could learn to ride a bike faster than his sister who was 21 months older?

Now before you all think we are a family of old-fashioned gender defined roles, let me digress to say that my older daughter is the most rabid baseball fan I know, my younger daughter would rather have a basketball in her hands than a purse anyway, and up until about two years ago, I could take my son to the museum and he'd keep a sketchbook like his mom. We are equal opportunity parents and our kids like what they like with little influence from us. Believe me, I've tried influencing them. No matter what I dangle before them, they only pick what they like anyway.

I still don't know anything about boys, but when you think about it, I don't know much about kids in general. I mean, I put the stuff out there, and they pick and choose what they want to follow. They have a pretty clear understanding of our morals and values and seem to be able to stay on the right side of it most of the time. At least as far as I know none of them have a police record and their permanent record is fairly unscathed.

What do I know about raising boys? Stuff like if you refuse to buy your son a toy gun, he will take some bites of out the toast you carefully buttered, hold it in his hand and point it at you and say "bang, bang". I learned that when he leaves a red crayon in his pocket, it will cover all the clothes in the dryer, and the dry bin itself and you'll have to have a repairman come out to get rid of it. I also learned that hamsters will eat through every piece of an expensive plastic habitat and that pet stores have identical white gerbils to replace the one that got his neck guillotined in the cage door. I know all the rules of soccer and baseball, and learned, as he grew older, more subtle points, like sons do not want their mom to accompany them to pick out their prom tuxes, while daughters expect you to be with them for every gown twirling moment in every department store on the East Coast. Sons, however, will only confide health issues to their mother, leaving the father to learn second-hand about anything involving a doctor from the mother. Of course, there will always be mysteries that no parents will solve, like what is that sticky green stuff in the drawer of his desk, why is his waste can filled with clean clothes and a banana peel, and how do all the sheets and pillowcases come off his bed every night.

We shall miss our son when he moves to college. We are actively looking for replacement labor to pull the air conditioners in and out of the windows and to shovel the walks when it snows. We've primed the youngest daughter that she'll be taking over the role of One Who Takes Out the Garbage. And we are anticipating replenishing our ever-diminishing inventory of towels, bowls, cups, forks, and spoons by doing a sweep of his room. A sweep with a metal detector and power washer by the looks of it.

And I'm also looking forward to that day, in about ten years, when he calls me to say, "Mom, we're having a baby". And then I'll invite him over for a burger and teach him everything I know. And everything I don't.

Back to work

I stayed up way too late last night, trying to finish an essay due by midnight. I got it in on time, but then I couldn't fall asleep and slept fitfully at best the rest of the night. This morning I feel hungover without the benefit of the fun of alcohol and my right hand is numb, so this will be short.

The weekend was fun, filled with a lot of entertaining and an afternoon at the pool where I stupidly thought it was too cool to need sunscreen and got a sunburned face. The last thing I need is some more sun wrinkles!

I went to Borders and picked up Ann Patchett's new book: "Truth and Beauty" about her best friend. I read about three pages of it and was so inspired that I put it down and wrote a long essay about my first "best friend".

So while I never did get into my art room, the weekend was very prolific for writing and what more can you ask?