Susiej

Not only did I overhear my kids talking about the pot of gold that was going to show up on St. Patrick’s Day (as it does every year) but I also learned from them that there was going to be an actual Scavenger Hunt to find the gold. Please.

Lifetimes are made up of the little things. But a Scavenger Hunt? That’s not just a little thing. But listening to those voices in my head repeating the words “it’s going to be so eggciting…” I had no choice but to start my clandestine efforts for the treasure. The pot of gold would be simply, chocolate coins. Except the store didn’t have them. The shamrock cookies I made, of course, were too sticky and gooey to cut, so I picked up store-bought shamrocks that looked better than anything I could have made. Snicker mini bars, wrapped in gold foil, and Hersey Almond Kisses, wrapped in gold, were added. (Thank you for that!)

A shinny metal bucket was stuffed, and the rest of the cookies and candy were hid in the oven to avoid an afternoon sugar-high.

The scavenger hunt clues?  Surprisingly, the clues did come easy. I thought about how to make them move from outside to in, into different floors. Figuring out how to get them there, turned into a chain of memories from the year that touched each one. Post-It notes were the perfect, stick-on medium.

The clues:

Where food melted because someone forgot…

(The freezer in the basement that was left open by accident.)

The first place you head to in winter mornings, hoping for some warm socks.

(The hot register threw them off… but it was actually the dryer.)

Now, take these to your room while you wait for your older brother to get home.

(Great way to incorporate a chore!)

The next clue was in the hallway outside of their room.

Where you tried to touch wire.

(They couldn’t figure this one out. That’s when they got the paper and started marking up the clues and making a treasure map. Finally, my oldest son came home and he was the only one who knew this one. When we first moved here, he thought it would be cool to stand on the roof of the tree house and try to touch the telephone wires. He didn’t.)

The smelly place where I once held office.

(Our mudroom is actually my old office space.)

What code was created on a cold icy day?

(The littlest one got this one… the garage door was fixed, and we created for the first time, a pass for out keypad outside the garage door. I stuck the clue to the inside of the garage door; but of course, they punched in the code, and up went the garage door. But not to worry. “Oh, there it is,” as it tumbled to the garage floor cement. )

Now, pour yourself a glass of milk, to get ready.

(No one bothered to take the time for that. They just pulled the clue off the milk.)

Where are the snowmen?

(Not those. The ceramic snowmen are still sitting in the hutch.)

And, there, in the waning glow of the afternoon sun, there was the pot of gold.

Now, they tell me, this is how they want to do Christmas.

Later that day…
I preheated the oven to 450 to make baguettes for dinner. There was an awful smell. It was, of course, the bags of snickers, kisses, and cookies in the plastic store-bought containers, melting all over the oven racks.

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For years, Carl has served as the perfect guardian for a little girl. Carl is a black dog that babysits while Mom goes on numerous adventures in the adorable series of children’s picture books by Alexandra Day. Carl was doing just fine, until, the books came under scrutiny by a handful of critics who were appalled at the idea of putting a dog in charge of a child.  In a picture book.

It’s OK for a little girl to wander off in the woods and steal some bear’s porridge. And, don’t we all send little girls out to the woods to mingle with wolves? Only to be eaten later?  But a gentle dog playing with a baby? That’s, appalling.

In the book Carl’s Snowy Afternoon, Alexandra provides a babysitter. As Carl and the child watch mom and dad walk away, mom says,

“I hope that new sitter is reliable.”

Dad’s response? “Well, Carl’s there.”

And what does the babysitter do? She does exactly what babysitters do. She watches television.

While remaining oblivious to the fact that Carl and the baby are sneaking outside.

Priceless.

Carl takes her sledding.

And it’s Carl who makes sure to pinch the baby her lunch and gently feeds her.

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Looking back, I can say that my greatest memory of last summer was not developing goose bumps waiting behind a boat, but rather, feeding friends and family directly from the garden. Now’s the time to start this summer’s crop.

The Farmer’s Almanac has a handy-dandy calendar available for free that has already calculated the phases of the moon to tell you exactly when you should be clearing ground, and actually planting seeds. Pay attention — some days actually say “seeds planted today tend to rot.” (Why wouldn’t we plant by the moon? Just check the hospital birth rates during full moons!) Today and tomorrow are good seed starting dates, and so I prepared in advance by making these gorgeous, recyclable origami newspaper seedling pots. Like peat pots, you simply plant the entire pot in the ground when you’re ready to transplant to the garden.

It’s getting difficult to find a newspaper made of entirely black ink — but that’s OK, because all the inks tend to be made with soy now. The one thing you must try to avoid is the glossy pages.

There are quite a few video tutorials available to show you how to make these origami newspaper seedling pots– but this one below is the only one that has the camera positioned at just the right angle to actually let you see how to make the “flip.” The only adjustment I made was to use a double sheet of newspaper, folded in half. Makes a sturdier pot.

Unfortunately, my newspaper is a bit shorter than hers, so I could not make the fold over flap. Instead, I had to use tape to seal off the pot.

These are great pots, they’re free, and they hold lots of water, and then dry out. The nicest thing is that they are quite large, making it less likely that your seedlings will grow out of your pots.

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Filed under: Life, gardening, the lake house | 1 Comment →

Doesn’t chicken sound good for dinner? Name that movie was delayed by life. The dialogue, which many of you knew, (some admitted figuring it out with Google’s help) was from a movie better known for its reputation as holding the “the longest kiss,” Notorious. Only Cary Grant could make chicken, eaten with your fingers, sound so good.

This “kiss” is actually an embrace, as in 1946 they were not permitted to kiss longer than 3 seconds, due to Hollywood production codes at the time. Yet, notice how Hitchcock used that rule to create something truly beautiful. There is never a moment when improper behavior is actually stated or shown, and the film leaves everything to the imagination. Notice how Cary Grant never takes his eyes off of Ingrid’s face — he stares at her lips, her hair, her eyes. Then, notice how he slightly nudges her away with his head — she catches this pull, “Where are you going?” and as they walk to the phone they never stop embracing. At the end, he so gracefully pulls away, and simply shuts the door behind him, and the kiss comes to its 180-second end.

Using Random.org, I selected the winner of the Amazon Gift Card and The Infant and Toddler Guide to Busy Parents. Couldn’t have selected a more perfect winner. Heather, mother of 3 at Cool Zebras. Thank you all so much for participating.

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The wooden trains have been buried in their storage tub since that sick day when he built an un-Christmas train last year.  I made a good-faith effort to pull out the train and placed the tracks under the real Christmas tree this year; but the train was not embraced. In fact, it was simply ignored.  I even slid the already-decorated Christmas tree right across the floor to allow more “building” room for the track.  (Not one ornament was lost in the move.) Space, apparently, was not the problem. He had a change of heart.  Just like little Jackie Paper, one day he just found other things to occupy his time, besides trains.

When we opened the book to Puff, and sang the song about the little boy who left his childhood friend behind, I never thought we were reading a story about us.

So I asked him, “You’re really done with this train, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered, without looking up from his latest Bionicle creation.

“Well, then, maybe we should pack it up , and find some other little boy who’d like to play with this train.”

“No, Mom,” he said. “Let me tell you how it’s gonna be.  When I’m all grown up, and I’m a Grandpa, you’re going to keep the train around, built all around your house so that you can remember me.”

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I caught his eye, and before I let the words out, his eyes told me to stop. Stop. Don’t say what you’re going to say. But I said it anyway. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss.

The words brought exasperation to his face — as if he had so much to explain about this death. Not I’m sorry — this was a celebration! I suddenly felt like I was wearing work boots at a black-tie affair with my sorrowful, mournful expression. My words, meant to be offered in comfort, brought darkness.

Maybe, he should have said “sorry” to me… because I wasn’t quite at the joyful, celebration-of life-stage that he was at… yet.

That was years ago…

Since then, I’ve been so warily careful of what to say to the bereaved.

Sometimes, we have our own grief to deal with — and then we feel compelled to try to comfort the others. Maybe we have no place to do such things; maybe we should just be in the moment, with them, and let life unfold.

Since the night I read the words “brain damage,” the world has felt slightly ajar, something out of place. I needed balance — and I found it simply by crying into my husband’s chest; standing up. As if by letting the tears out while standing, I would somehow grow new roots, and I needed to pull in some of the strength he had stored up in his arms.

I remembered fleeting moments of the past, when Seth was a little boy — the way I remember him — trying to re-carve moments in the past; to help myself understand, in retrospect, what a gift it was to have such a brief time with him. Now, I realize, we just brushed our sleeves with him — life is so quick. Did I, his preschool teachers, his classmates — did any of us realize who we were with?

And, thinking about how other-worldly wise he always seemed… His 4th birthday party was at Grater’s Ice Cream, and the little man handled himself so well, that I asked his mom to check his birth certificate — that maybe they were wrong — maybe he really was 5, and they missed a year. And he grew into such a cool dude.

I am bursting at the seams to say so much right now, and I’ve held back writing this because I care so deeply about the family. I fear I will say that just-off wrong phrase that will send their world off-kilter, and have to explain the way they see it, all over to me, draining their energy. I have much to say about a child taken. A child living with cancer. Parents left without their child. Baby sisters missing their big brother. His fight. His fierce courage. His beauty. Their strength. Their courage. Their grace. Their honesty. My sadness. My awe.

I can’t say anymore about the beautiful life of this little boy’s fight against cancer than his parents have already lovingly revealed to us here . This journey has transformed her into a courageous, heart-felt writer, as her world poured out onto the page, as we waited anxiously for her updates — living for them, in the end, by the minutes. Nor can I add to the wonderful expressions of support for the family that have appeared here.

Life upside down. The mother and father living life, again, without the presence of the child. How different each day will be for them, forever. And how, they will do their best to ensure that each day remains a blessing, with perfect grace.

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