secondhand gods

4 happy years

...and still going strong.

happiness is...

A brand new baby nephew!

"Beans" was born last night at 10.59 PM and is a serene and owlish 6 lbs 6 oz. He is absolutely beautiful and sleepy and solemn...and snuzzly...and he smells good...and he has made me SO EXCITED for Miss Snoop to arrive in three months' time. I am sure that they will be fast and lifelong friends.

Congratulations to my heroic brother and his even-more-heroic wife (who endured basically a 20-hour labor and today is as cheerful as a lark!)

why my family rocks (in no particular order)

• Because my mother baked me an entire pumpkin pie, all of my own, to bring back downstate with us on Christmas.
• Because my sibs special-ordered me the very coolest David Lynch - Angriest Dog in the World t-shirt.
• Because over Christmas, in between being the Sleepingest Dog in the World, I probably was the Angriest Dog in the World, and no one said much about it. They just baked me pie. And gave me cool t-shirts.

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and are blessed with family as kind as mine.

"an unhurried sense of time is in itself a form of wealth." bonnie friedman

I've had four days off from work for the Thanksgiving holiday, and they have been blissful. It is remarkable to me that I am almost an entirely different person when given the gift of time and leisure.

Because time, really, is a gift. It's important to give yourself the gift of the best kind of time; time without rules, without tasks, without boundaries, alarms, deadlines.

It's a gift to be able to enjoy the first snowfall, tromping around quiet trails in the woods. It's a gift to gather pinecones and fresh green boughs for the holiday decorating.

It's a gift to spend time with family and friends, cooking and reading and playing games around the table after the dishes have been cleared.

It's a gift to browse through the library for a list of books you have wanted to read for awhile, saying the authors names under your breath as you look for them, cracked spine after cracked spine; "McPhee, Richardson, Ackroyd, Fraser, O'Farrell..."

It's a gift to have family who are perfectly content to come visit you for several unhurried days, knowing perfectly well that they will likely be pressed into service to help bake, cook, decorate, and fiddle with your lukewarm clothes dryer.

It's a gift to be outside in the breathtaking new cold air, watching your husband squabble with a stubborn string of Christmas lights.

It's a gift to walk to the pub on a frosty night and have a pint of Guinness while the moon, almost full, hangs tantalizingly overhead. It's a gift to be followed home by a strange cat in the darkness, who just wants one more pat.

It's a gift for your husband to have time to fold a countless array of origami boxes to thread through lights and loop over your mantel.

It's a gift to read the New York Times and discuss in detail which holiday movies you badly want to see (The Golden Compass) and which your husband badly wants to see (I Am Legend) and which you both might want to see (Sweeney Todd, The Mist) and try to come to some compromise.

Time is a gift. And luckily, we have many other gifts in our lives that make having the time to enjoy them fully almost the most important gift of all.

apple picking

Whilst in New York State, we visited GB's family and spent a drowsy, golden afternoon in an orchard atop a bluff overlooking the Hudson Valley, picking apples.

The weather was so beautiful -- the sun so warm and heavy, and the air smelled liked apple juice and autumn leaves. We found it so easy to fill our pails with fruit, with only the buzzing of wasps and the far-off sound of the hay wagon and children laughing to disturb us.

Unfortunately, when we had clambered back to the parking lot, we soon found that perhaps the heady giddiness of the orchard experience had affected our judgment when it came to the volume and mass of the fruit we picked.

We picked seventy pounds of apples.

Luckily, it just meant that late into the night, the house was fragranced with the delicious smell of my MIL K's mouth watering apple crumb pies and apple tarts.

It's nice when stories have a happy ending, isn't it?

stressful week

I didn't want to blog about it until after it happened, but it's been a stressful week. My father went in for some fairly serious surgery, and I took some time off work to go up and be at the hospital with him, my mom and brother.

It's seriously fall in the heart of Michigan now, and I drove north a couple of hours to the hospital through landscape gleaming with color -- from deep burgundy and merlot to shades of peach and honey. I have been listening to an autobiography of C.S. Lewis in the car, which inspired some strange dreams the night before my dad's surgery. I dreamed that my great-grandfather -- of whom I haven't thought in a long time -- knocked on my door to give me bags of Halloween candy to give to the children trick or treating, and that a big lion wanted to dance with me, but I was afraid because I thought his claws would sink into me, not maliciously, but the way cats do when they are pleased.

I met my mom & brother at the hospital before dawn on the day of the surgery. Due to spousal schedules and health issues, for the first time in a long time it was just us. Once you are grown and married, it is not often that you are alone with the family you grew up with rather than the extended family you have become through love. My brother and I are not just children of our parents, but friends of theirs as well. We possess the traditional and expected amount of familial love for them, but in addition, we adore them as stand-alone people and we would choose to be with them more than anyone except our respective spouses.

My dad wasn't nervous, but the rest of us were. He went to a rather small hospital over an hour from where he and my mother live, and the small size was initially a concern for us. However, after we met his doctors, we had no doubts that they had made the right decision. In surgery prep, his surgeons, the surgical nurse, and the anaesthesiologist all came to talk to him and to us, shook our hands all around very nicely, looked each of us in the eyes, and talked very naturally and frankly about what was to come.

After saying good-bye to my dad and rather tearfully watching them wheel him away, my brother and mom and I retired with some trepidation to the waiting room. We discussed the anaesthesiologist's skin care regimen -- he had strikingly lovely skin, which my brother was intermittently envious and suspicious of -- and the surgeon's wardrobe, which was equally lovely. When he came to talk to us, he'd been wearing impeccably tailored trousers and a very dashing jacket. I knitted away, and listened to my brother and mom chat. My brother had done his homework on the procedure, which was not surprising. He is a detailed and protective person who plans things out, keeps lists of questions to ask, and herds us like a gentle and anxious guard dog. He is the one who will jump up, ask the nurses questions, fetch my father anything within reason, and hover until he is assured that we are all comfortable and taken-care of. Outside, the rain lashed yellow leaves into the gutters and streamed down the windowpanes. The hospital was low-key and had an intimate feeling to it. The lady behind the desk crocheted serenely and a television murmured on the wall. The clock ticked away.

My mother, who had the most reason of all of us to feel anxious, was quite a brick about things. She possesses the admirable gift of making the smallest things and the most unusual times feel special and holidayish, even the stressful moments sitting in the hospital waiting room, or ferreting out blueberry pancakes in the hospital cafeteria. At times when you cannot imagine that she could think of anyone except herself or her own worries, she will almost always focus on you and make you feel that you are needed, loved, and that she is thinking only of you and your presence.

Finally, my dad was wheeled out of surgery, groggy but in sufficient possession of his faculties to make several trenchant observations that kept us all laughing. "Get me some ice chips," he said to my brother. Aware that the nurse might disapprove, he instructed faintly, "Throw yourself on their mercy. My God, weep if you have to."

He was in a fair amount of pain, and had the habit of drifting off mid-sentence, or beeping away on his pain medication button when one of us said something he didn't particularly want to hear, but the wonderful doctors both assured us that the surgery had gone very well, they were very pleased, and they felt comfortable that all will be well.

That night, my parent's cat stalked around looking for him, squeaking indignantly at his absence. When we returned to the hospital the following morning, Dad was looking much better, and had been up and down to shower and get cleaned up, which frankly amazed us. He is in for several weeks of difficult healing time, but we are hopeful that he will be completely well by the holidays. This is enormously comforting to all of us and we are very thankful to the doctors and the nursing staff.

I left to drive home feeling morose and melancholy at the separation, despite the relief over my father's good progress. It felt wrong to leave them in the hospital, feeling, as it does, that the unknown is closer there. But after a couple of more hours of C.S. Lewis, and by the time I was out of the woodsmoke-smelling north and back down into still-green Detroit Metro, things had mellowed a bit and I was able to feel the clean simple gratitude of being home, Maggie the cat winding around my ankles, the mail on the table, the smell of our house. It felt like I had been away a long time, and I noted that the peony bush by the birdbath has turned yellow and should be cut back for the winter.

It is difficult to love people so much that they feel a part of you, a component of who you are and were and would like to be, and separate from them even when you know the separation is temporary. It makes me fear how I will ever cope when the separation is, of necessity, longer or perhaps permanent. But it appears that time is not now, and for that I am supremely grateful.

"the squirrel that you kill in jest, dies in earnest."*

*Henry David Thoreau. It was either that or "You can't be friends with a squirrel! A squirrel is just a rat with a cuter outfit." -- Carrie Bradshaw

GB & I went north to Cicely last weekend, ostensibly to see my family but in reality because GB has been itching to get his "shoot" on. Squirrel season is open in Michigan, and GB, my dad, and my brother have been talking about it for weeks. My father purchased a squirrel call for the occasion (note: the first time you are awakened by a squirrel call, it's funny; the second time, not so much.) It was time for GB to take out all of his frustration on the northern brethren of the little furry vermin that have been raiding our garden and stealing our cherry tomatoes and squash all summer long.

They went out on a brilliant Saturday morning and came back with two good-sized squirrels. My mother, who is not a meat-eater under most circumstances and certainly did not see the point of squirrel murder, expressed her disapproval. It seemed to both of us like some sort of bizarre experiment. My father might have hunted in his youth, but he's never been able to work up more than a scornful indifference for the season since I've been around, and we've certainly never been the kind of family to have packs of venison in our freezer and camoflauge hanging in the closet. The squirrel thing seemed perplexing. Fishing? Sure. Hunting? Huh, that's a new one. But, not being the type of women who have to blow someone else's candle out to make our own shine brighter, we tried to be supportive.

After she finished her morning's work at the library, she came in the back door, wearing her long-sleeved t-shirt decorated with OM symbols, to find my father bustling energetically around the kitchen, gathering up cooking utensils, whistling cheerfully.

"Where are the squirrels now?" she asked suspiciously.

"Soaking in salt water in the ice house, my dear," my father informed her with a flourish.

"What are you doing with that cutting board?"

"I'm getting ready to par-boil my squirrel," he told her.

My mother's eyes took on the hard shine that most of us have learned to regard warily, and her small frame began to bristle invisibly. "I don't THINK so. I don't want any such thing under my roof, much less in my kitchen."

My father drew back and looked wounded, but good sense prevailed and he did not argue. "I'll just use the burner on the grill," he said, gathering up a saucepan. My mother placed herself bodily in front of the kitchen door.

"You are NOT using my good pans to cook SQUIRREL," she said.

My dad retreated, gathering the shreds of his injured dignity around him. "I'll just BUY some pans," he said with a last flicker of rather heartbreaking defiance.

We took a trip to the local market and came back proudly brandishing a set of pans and tongs. "I've got my own squirrel pans," he shouted in the house at my mother, who studiously ignored him.

"You should nail their little skulls to the icehouse wall," I suggested.

He looked disgusted. "Have you ever tried squirrel?" he asked. "Our forefathers were raised on squirrel. Ben Franklin LOVED squirrel. This country wouldn't be as great as it is today without squirrel."

The squirrel bits in the pan looked greasy and of undeterminate origin. After he had par-boiled and fried them, he busied himself seasoning them, and said with studied innocence over his shoulder, "Hey. Do me a favor. Take that saucepan into the house and wash it, would you?"

Faithful daughter that I am, I had trotted halfway to the house when it hit me. I looked at the saucepan, and stomped back to the grill.

"If Mom didn't want you cooking squirrel in her kitchen or using her pots, she's not going to take kindly to me washing out the squirrel pot in her sink," I said. "I don't want anything to do with this."

"Fine, I'll use the HOSE," he said, aggrieved. I felt a bit sorry for him then, the trials and tribulations of a misunderstood squirrel hunter, watching him disconsolately hose off his special squirrel pans and tongs.

It seemed like a lot of work for two or three bites of squirrel haunch, which were not much bigger than chicken wings and seemed far less appetizing. However, both he and GB, who had managed to tactfully disappear when he saw the culinary clouds brewing on the horizon, seemed to deeply enjoy reclining manfully on the back deck under a shower of acorns, enjoying the meat of their labors. I'm just wondering what Dad did with the rest of the squirrel corpses and when and where my mother will discover them.

 

the hardest thing

Sometimes the hardest thing about knitting is trying to decide what to keep, and what to give away.

Especially now that I know someone who will actually be able to use these little frothy knitted things!

And no, it's not me...not yet, anyway.

Fall has come and gone once or twice this week. At one point we were in the thirties at night, sleeping under blankets, and planting tulip bulbs at the cottage while listening to college football on the faraway-sounding radio.

Then we were back in the eighties during the day. Warm enough for me to stand out in the street at ten thirty at night in my pajamas whilst watching our crazed friend Hammy try to get his motorcycle started, praying that the neighbors didn't call the police on us. Hammy has a difficult time keeping his voice down, especially during surprise middle of the night visits when he accidentally leaves his headlight on and wears the battery out. Unfortunately, GB was at a charity function and could only assist by telephone, instructing me as to where the flashlight and battery charger could be located. I unspooled about a mile of electric cord, plugged the charger into our bathroom, and Hammy & I stood around in the dark waiting for the battery to charge. I could tell he was embarrassed. He kept trying to entertain me with horrifying gossip about people I don't know, while I kept shushing him and looking anxiously at the houses around us for signs of irate neighbors peering out the curtains. No matter. It only makes us even for the time he was called to the emergency room to sit with me after my car accident. Hammy & I are becoming accustomed to riding out extenuating crisis circumstances together.

Other signs of fall: my father woke us up at eight AM, playing his squirrel call into the telephone to get GB excited for their squirrel hunting trip next weekend. My mother later said that their cat had packed her bags and was waiting by the side of the road with her thumb out, unable to take any more of being chased around the house by disembodied squirrel chatter.

The signs for the annual civic scarecrow building contest are already up, and scarecrows are beginning to appear around town. The fun of raking and leaf piles can't be far behind.

everything happens at once

It must be one of the unwritten laws of the universe that everything happens at once. Every weekend in August is booked for us. Luckily, they're all enjoyable things to look forward to. Last weekend, we were at my brother and sister-in-law's to celebrate my brother's graduation. He's spent the last three or so years working full time and going to school at night and on the weekends for his MBA, which is a huge amount of effort, dedication, and accomplishment. I doubt I would have the intestinal fortitude to do both (heck, I KNOW I don't -- I was accepted to law school and could have gone when we got back from Australia, but I just knew I couldn't hack the schedule of trying to juggle work and school.) So we are very proud of C, and impressed too.

Next weekend, we have GB's family coming in to stay for a few days, and the following weekend, another gathering of my dearly beloved. We'd also like to do dinner with my sister-in-law sometime this week, and have her see our house, finally.

In between, I am doing laundry, swiftly depositing every dirty dish into the dishwasher as promptly as the food is lifted from porcelain to mouth, barking at GB not to use any unauthorized household bathrooms depending on which have already been cleaned and need to stay that way, and doing complex calculations of when the next vacuumization of the carpets and upholstery should take place in order to achieve minimum cat furriness based on the inputs of potential allergic reaction and ETA of our guests.

I love having family as guests and my standards of cleanliness are an expression of how much I want them to enjoy staying at our house. Unfortunately it's a fine line sometimes. The cats are trying to blend in with the woodwork to stay away from me -- I'm either pursuing them with the Furminator, chasing them with the swiffer, or blasting past them with some noxious spray chemical designed to remove mildew from grout and flay skin from the bone.

You'll have to excuse me now -- I think I hear GB trying to abandon a cereal bowl in the kitchen sink.

an email conversation between myself and my brother

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SENT TO: S, Widget Central

FROM: C, Undisclosed Corporate Location

TIME: Middle of the workday when corporate things should be underway

What are you guys doing tonight? - C.

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SENT TO: C, Undisclosed Corporate Location

FROM: S, Widget Central

TIME: Later in the workday when corporate things should be underway

Hm. Well, it's a weeknight, usually means:

5.30 - leave work
6.00 - cursing in traffic on 275
6.30 - arrive home
6.35 - listen to yowling and complaining from cats who feel v. neglected about being left home all day
6.45 - put on jammies (Sidebar to Felt Mouse: Usually two-day old jammies!)
7.00 - sit around watching TV and talking to GB while he makes dinner
7.30 - dinner
8 - 8.30 - do the dishes, load coffeemaker & set timer for morning coffee
8.35 - double check morning coffee timer to make sure it's set
8.40 - pick up knitting, inspect knitting, put knitting down
8.43 - more yowling and complaining from feline element
8.45 - fall asleep on the couch watching Discovery channel, wake myself up from a shameful yet strangely blissful dream about Mike Rowe doing a dirty job
9.00 - 9.15 - fill the humidifier, wash face, brush teeth, turn on electric blanket, set alarm
9.15 - climb into bed to read
9.16 - turn electric blanket off because feet are too hot and swelling up like cartoon feet
9.18 - double check alarm to make sure it's set
9.30 - fall asleep with book on face

Livin' the dream, C...Livin' the dream.

Love, S.

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SENT TO: S, Widget Central

FROM: C, Undisclosed Corporate Location

TIME: Even farther into the workday when corporate things should clearly now be underway

Interesting format - Let me take a crack at it.

3.30 - leave work
4.00 - arrive home
4.05 - consume after work pickle
4.10 - cats que up for various attentions
4.30 - turn computer to 'do homework'
5.00 - realize homework not yet started yet news well known.
5.30 - start homework
6.00 - Beloved wife comes home
6.30 - consume dinner while watching TiVoed King of Queens
7.00 - fight overwhelming urge to nap
7.30 - resume homework
8.30 - give up on homework
9.00 - put kettle on for tea while cackling at Beloved Wife that line from the Halloween looney tunes "a cup of tea, a cookie, and you-whoooo"
9.30 - realize I've been staring at some VH1 train wreck of a television show because Beloved Wife has the clicker.
10.00 - Bed.

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SENT TO: C, Undisclosed Corporate Location

FROM: S, Widget Central

TIME: Way too late in the workday for corporate things to be successfully underway

"After work pickle?"

Love, S.

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