Below is a screen shot of our family google calendar for Wednesdays from 5-8 pm. This is the result of my prudent effort of allowing my kids only one sport per season:
It may be a bit difficult to read, with all of those overlapping events. So, I’ll break it down for you:
We were reluctantly roped into this adventure by an unrelenting 5-year-old, that spent a little too much time looking at the suspiciously hand-drawn (note that the author had no actual pictures) of 3-d sculptures made from sticks and moss in the book Nature’s Art Box.
By the end of two hours, however, each one of us were privately engulfed in a world that revealed the challenges that architects and engineers must face daily, with a fleeting glimpse into the magical world of miniature, where toads, bugs and maybe fairies habitat our world right along beside us. “I wonder who just might live here?” Certainly not a frog, I was reminded; toads like dry places just like this. I’m holding out for the fairy.
I built three houses out of sticks. Each developer had grand plans, but was unable to integrate a vision into their designs. As Mom, I was called in for help. After all, this was all my idea. One house was small and tight, but had no door. Another was covered in moss. All of them had a walkway crafted out of bark and stones. We used glue to hold everything together; next time we’ll use waterproof glue.
The Lincoln-log style of architecture of layering sticks on one-side then the other seemed to be the easiest method and created the most stable of all houses. At the five-year-old’s urgings, we created a porcupine from a pine cone.
As the structures grew in stature, we went scrambling through the yard for more sticks; looking for just the right fatness, sturdiness, and as much streamlined-straightness as Mother Nature could provide. My favorite house is this one made from moss.
Because of, and not in spite of, its smallness, this one has a sense of genuineness – I was expecting a grasshopper to answer the knock at the door any second. Yet, these curly-ques of moss suggest magic; as if there is someone real inside who will walk out with a bowl of apples and commence the fairy tale; one we’ve already heard a million times. I think it’s the door frame that gives it that authenticity. Although crudely glued, the door looks real enough to open from the inside. The acorn shell doorknob doesn’t hurt the fantasy.
As I became deeper engrossed in gluing, I thought about all of the times in my life I have passed up opportunities just like this. How many times was I asked to “pick up the sticks” so my parents could mow the lawn, and I stopped at just one? I had no idea then, what I was missing. How could I have foreseen just how engaging and fun it could be to build structures out of sticks?
To think, that for years, I have been shelling out tubs of Lincoln Logs to my sons, and feeling as if I was such a good Mom to give them something so natural to play with, using wooden toys, rather than plastic.
Although there is not a Lincoln Log with me to check right now, my memory detects a coat of varnish that covers the perfectly cut logs. Lincoln logs don’t have bark that flakes off when you rub them between your fingers. Lincoln logs do not have bends in just the wrong spot, resulting in “walls with character.”
These natural sticks require you to eye the length, and snap a stick in just the right spot so that it will line up somewhat evenly with the other sticks. Lincoln logs don’t require you to re-evaluate your roof placement because one side is lopsided. Built correctly, following and staying with in the guidelines, Lincoln Logs will yield exact corners and the exact-height walls, every time.
These houses have nothing of the sort.
There probably isn’t a park, backyard or sidewalk in the world that isn’t littered with some kind of stray sticks, pieces of bark, and, of course, moss.
These toys, tools, are available to anyone anywhere; and they create a satisfaction that I have not felt for a long time. Since we put the glue away, I have caught myself more than once, imagining a picnic table, with acorns as plates. As soon as summer brings us flowers, I’ll be adding a bit more embellishments to these houses. Because, that is one thing the boys won’t think to add.
My first clue came when I noticed the boys were spending extended amounts of time outside; with their shoes off. Then, I realized what was happening when I saw a fly perched on the windowsill, and it was not dead. Spring arrived at the lake.
Remember that one tree branch that always bugs Dave when he’s sitting on the deck looking out at the lake? He took care of it. No EMS visit was needed.
Our “friendly” neighbor (you know who I’m talking about) sauntered on over carrying a single stray sandal; about a man’s size 15 and wanted to know if it was ours. Angel, apparently had carried it off from somewhere. The sandal was not ours, but Angel did confiscate one of the boots the boys threw off in the yard. Angel also took a Lacrosse ball and we had to chase it down.
Speaking of our friendly neighbor, his best friend (the other neighbor I’m sure you know who I’m talking about) bought a brand new pontoon boat, and brand new aluminum dock. He strategically moved his dock down several feet, so that it almost sits squarely where you-know-who’s dock once sat. (Except that you-know-who did not get his dock out of the water in time and the lake froze, and his dock sunk.)
Our Neighbor took his first maiden voyage in his new boat, with his family, on Friday. The other neighbor grumbled that he’d do that too, “if he didn’t have so much darned work to do.” He failed to mention a word about his sunken dock; and I thought it best not to bring it up.
The fish were not biting.
But certainly, they tried.
On a particularly sad and sobering note, you-know-who-with-the-horses purchased 25 acres for his horses. Not only will we be losing the neighing sound echoing across the lake, but our lake is losing its guardian angel.
Two loons decided to spend the week at our lake. They dodged like submarines whenever we tried to catch them on film. We were lucky enough to hear their trills two times. Our guardian angel explained that two loons usually stop by every spring a spend about a week here. He will miss this lake.
And, the frogs are awake from their long winter’s nap.
And for some reason, I thought this creature was interesting.
Everything’s the same; yet so much is changing at the lake.
While the events here are true, initials have been changed to represent middle names.
The newspapers I have been saving since January are in Dave’s car, and should arrive around 4 o’clock today. I would have brought them myself yesterday, but there was no room left to pack them in my car, after the groceries, clothes, cooler and 5 passengers were loaded. (Actually, the days are messed up… I arrived several days ago; that’s how it is when you write things days ago, and you have no wifi. Primitive, I know.)
We left around 2 in the afternoon, between meals, and I knew the kids would be hungry about one hour into the trip. After packing all morning, I refused to add cooking to my to-do list, primarily because I just couldn’t add the task of clean up to my already overburdened last-minute overflowing list. Although I can’t bear the aftermaths of fast food (it tends to make my head feel funny, and my stomach mushy), I figured, just this once, we could stop.
Except, that there wasn’t a place to stop. Based on the rural back roads that lead to the lake, I knew there would be no yellow arches, but there would be mom and pop diners, that display their home-made pies slices, on white ceramic plates in a display case up by the counter, where men sit on bar stools and eat their lunches. Stopping there would have added a detour of a couple of miles, and at least an hour of time. Plus, there would be the talk from friendly waitresses who have grandchildren just about the age of my children. Actually, I relish these small-town conversations, picking up on the slow-rhythms that run beneath their day, and watching how their eyes don’t stray from your face when they ask you a question. When I’m with my boys, alone, I like to stay focused on the task at hand; which is heading off fights before they have a chance to escalate. Distractions –mine — can spell disaster.
Then, R felt sick. I looked behind me, and he was green. We were only 45-minutes away from our 3-hour destination. Up the road, about 20 minutes, is the first major interstate, which has no arch, but does have the blue W, a Wal-Mart. (An upside down golden arch? Did you ever realize that?) At this point, we realized how grateful we were that Dave had installed the rear backseat in the wagon of the Volvo. This was our maiden voyage using the seat, which positioned the passengers facing the back; just like old-fashioned station wagons. After considerable research on its safety, (much safer than any other seat, actually), we moved forward with the seat. To my surprise, the two little boys both wanted to sit there. “They’re going to get sick so fast, “ I thought. But they didn’t. This left R the entire back seat (the middle seat) to himself, a great advantage when you’re not feeling well. The second benefit to the rear seat was this; L and D are very loud and obnoxious in the car. While they threw blankets on top of each other’s head, and made the most annoying goofy sounds, their voices carried straight to the back of the car. We could barely hear them. The trip was a bliss that R and W (who is big enough to sit beside me in the front) and I had not experienced in a very long time.
At Wal-Mart, I expected to pick up some 7-UP, my mom’s other health food, as I was unable to heat water for gelatin, and a few snacks to tide the kids over. On my way in, there was a large cardboard box display of Quantum of Solace , for $19.99. I was sorely tempted, but I kept going, deciding to wait until it appears at the library.
I was willing to raid the HoHos, Twinkies, and chips, and whatever else it would take to keep the kids out of the golden arches I knew were just up ahead in 20 more miles. First, I will emphasize here that my kids are very picky eaters, and I am pulling my hair out at every meal trying to satisfy their ever-changing palates. A condition, I am often reminded of by more experienced parents, that I created myself. Before I could make it down the junk aisle, the boys were already distracted and stalled in the produce section. D picked out a small snack-sized plastic tray of cute baby vegetables, with a cup of ranch dressing, what he called, his “lunchable.” L settled for an entire loaf of a French baguette that was on clearance with the loaves of day-old bread. (He ate the entire loaf in the car, save for one chunk.) W picked up a pack of dried mango slices (a food mentioned in the book on CD we were listening to in the car, Marley: A Dog Like No Other.) Once the 7-UP hit R’s stomach, he was ready to move on to solid food; the peaches he picked up and a chunk of L’s bread. He said, “I didn’t really start feeling better until I ate the peach.”
Left to their own devices, they selected foods not too far from the foods I try to serve them for dinner, yet refuse to eat, with the time-honored, exhausting struggle. This must be the original fast food.
And the newspapers? More on that later.
Separating clutter from sentiment is not so easy. From my newspaper column.
When the first warm breeze blows into our long, bitter winter, my boys are sure that this is the signal of the end. Within minutes, they’ve scrambled to the attic, pulled the lids off the storage tubs, and are soon wearing their long lost and forgotten t-shirts and shorts. It is only March, and Ohio weather can turn bitter cold in a span of just a few hours. Yet, the boys believe, with all their hearts that summer has settled into the earth for good.
The tangled mess of clothes they’ve left, running like a river down the hallways, with tributaries running to each of our bedrooms, is the starting point of my spring-cleaning; a more intense effort of my yearlong efforts to sort, purge and clean.
Warm March days are made for opening the windows, before the insects awake, to let the high winds carry out the dust. Before the cleaning comes the purging; to free our home from the stress of stuff. Scientists say that even if we aren’t looking at the clutter that fills a room, our brain must work harder to filter out the objects in the periphery, just so it can focus.
Clutter is a 3-D visual reminder of what is unfinished. Rarely used objects are symbols of procrastination, unfinished plans, and of who we are not. The rules are simple: trash it, donate it, or use it. There is also the one-year box trick; put items in a box, and if you haven’t opened the box in one year, give it away – without opening the box.
This stripped, popsicle-stained t-shirt, lying on the floor, that no longer fits any boy in this house, is a good place to start. Experts advise me to separate emotion from things; sentimentality is out. This is not the time to reflect on the days this shirt was worn to pick blueberries, or its sunset appearances at Picnic at the Pops, or the catnaps taken in the stroller while wearing this shirt. Not the time to remember the days when the presence of a Popsicle kept them blissful for at least 20 minutes, and transformed me into their heroine.
Each shirt is like a page in a scrapbook; evoking memories of places, miss-pronounced words, and smiles I have forgotten to remember. “How do you let these go?,” I want to ask the clutter experts. “Take a snapshot,” they will answer. A photo will never capture that little boy smell that doesn’t wash away, the softness of the fabric that once covered their skin.
The de-cluttering experts will tell me that hanging onto things that no longer have a purpose keeps me stagnant. So, I purge my own closet, ridding myself of belts and purses and out-of-style jeans. Vases I no longer love, (regardless of the sender) and even the cast that cradled my leg at the age of two. (The one item that I do regret purging.) I toss the junk mail religiously, along with the uneaten leftovers in the fridge. Our counters are clean and clear; at least for a few minutes each day.
As for the stained t-shirt, I’ll keep this; it’s not a shirt, it’s a memoir. I’ll pack it away along with the sweaters we won’t need for the next few months. Next fall, when I pull out this Christmas tree sweater, the one he insisted on wearing post-season through March, I can only imagine what memories it will evoke.
You want one of these? I thought so. As usual, you start with a cute foot, and follow the recipe below. A great Easter Craft, these Easter Chicks preserve the memory of your child’s footprint.
Note: If your feet are “cracking” you’re probably cooking your dough too long.
See more Best Shots at Tracey’s.
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