Oh, Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree...

Two Sundays ago, we rushed out to a local high school to purchase a Christmas tree.  (The high school sells them as a fundraiser for their boosters club.)

The boys are excited; they can hardly stand still.  They are solicitous to help Joseph carry it into the house and prop it up in the tree stand.

I start to rummage through the dusty boxes of all things Christmas stuff, looking for the tree lights.

Box #1.  Only two strands of lights.

Hmm...That's odd.  I thought we had four or five strands of lights for the tree.

I love the lights of the holiday season.  Outdoor icicle lights along the roofline.  Lighted snowmen and reindeer.  The neighbor has a lighted Christmas pig, geese, red birds, among other creatures in her front yard and I love it.  I like indoor lights draped over the mantel greens.  Moreover, I like lots and lots of lights on the Christmas tree to dispel the gloom of darkness that blankets everything by five o'clock.

I plug in the two measly strands of lights to double check they are in working order before we begin to circle the tree with them.  Half of each strand is out.  What good is a half strand of Christmas lights?  None.

This won't do.  Surely, I have more lights somewhere.  You can never have too many lights during Christmas.

Box #2. I poke around, hoping that more lights are shoved into the bowels of this sturdy plastic box with it's organized five layers of ornaments.

No such luck.  Sigh.

There will be no Christmas tree decorating this evening.  It's too late to run out to the nearest discount store to make a quick purchase.  Our bellies rumble for dinner.

The boys are disappointed and understandably so.  While I throw spaghetti together for supper, I let the boys choose a few ornaments to put on the tree anyway.  An act of appeasement for the savages.

For a week, the Christmas tree sits in a corner of our parlor--a foreboding dark green mass of gloom.  Sometimes, when walking through the house, I see its hulking mass out of the corner of my eye and mistake it for a giant house invader.

Even though I manage to find time to dash off to a discount store to purchase four boxes of multi-colored lights, we have no time to devote to actually decorating the tree.  School.  Work.  Homework. Dinner.  Baths.  Goodnight cartoon.  Good night reading.  Bed.  That's our evening routine.

I didn't want to decorate the tree by myself after the boys went to bed, although that thought crossed my mind more than once as each day of the week passed by.

I proclaimed the following Friday as the official tree decorating day.  By 4PM, everyone was home and eager to get started.

Que the Christmas music.  Elias and I drape two strands of lights on the bottom half of the tree.  I realized rather quickly that I should have bought six boxes of lights instead of just the four.  Four wasn't going to be enough.

Oh well.  We must forge ahead.  Four boxes of lights, (each strand twenty feet long) will have to suffice.

Joseph and I put the last two strands of lights on the top half of the tree.  The tree looks sparse--like we don't have enough and are stretching them out.  Making do.  I don't say anything.  The boys have already started putting ornaments on.

Where's the Star of Bethlehem?

It's not in box #1, nor in box #2.

Joseph produces a third box.  An unlabeled box that I hadn't noticed before.  Viola.  The Star of Bethlehem and four strands of lights packed neatly in box #3.  When I plug them in for a test, they light up perfectly.

Sigh.  Why didn't Joseph produce this box last Sunday since he was the only one who knew anything about it?  Sigh again.

I want to remove the few ornaments the boys have put on the tree and the four strands of lights already on the tree and start over.  Will have eight strands of lights on a six foot tree.  It will be glorious!

No.  Joseph insists that the four strands of lights already on the tree are fine.  Not too much.  Not too little.

I give in since this tree has been standing naked for a week in our parlor.

Elias is having fun, carefully considering where to put each ornament.  (He's so like his mother.  Yay!)

Ethan, on the other hand, has lost interest in this thing called Christmas tree decorating.  He's listing reasons why he should be allowed to handle the saw that Joseph used to cut the tip off the tree to make room for the Star of Bethlehem.

Joseph, Elias, and I carry on decorating the tree while Austen watches us with indifference.   Eventually, Ethan contents himself with one of his toy tools.  

Our humble Christmas tree. 

I carefully consider where to put each ornament, taking care to spread out the different color orbs so as not to have all the reds ones grouped together and all the blue ones grouped together, etc. I quietly circle behind and rearrange what other family members clump together all willy nilly.  Then it hits me.  I wonder if we should start a tradition of giving the boys their own ornaments to collect.

I still have ornaments from my childhood.  The one from Alaska my cousin Melanie gave me.  One my Aunt Jane gave me engraved with my name, among others.  My parents were careful to preserve these and pass them on to me.  Joseph, however, doesn't have any keepsake ornaments from his childhood.

So what do we do for our kids?  Keepsake ornaments or no?

A Book Review: An Outlaw's Christmas

I adore Linda Lael Miller (LLM).  She could write a how-to article about "How to Sew on Buttons" and I would buy it just because her name would be the byline.

I've read LLM for years, first stumbling upon her McKettrick series while browsing the stacks at the public library.  I've been hooked ever since; she is that good.  No. Better yet. Great.

As much as I enjoy reading LLM's novels, however, I haven't read every single title that she has published, which is more than a 100 books.  I don't do pirates.  Or paranormal.  Or time-travel. She has strayed into those sub-genres, although she is most  regarded for her romances set in the American West, both historical and contemporary.  In fact, LLM is often referred to as the "First Lady of the West."  Her McKetterick series, spanning both historical and contemporary times, is part of that legacy.

Over the years, I've enjoyed watching LLM's style evolve.  Some of the first books of the McKetterick series, for example, were a bit convoluted.  The antagonists were often two dimensional, erring on the side of a cartoonish evil villain stereotype.  Where LLM excelled, however, was the characterization between the hero and heroine--the essence of any strong, good romance novel in my opinion.

That tension between the initial attraction and overcoming lack of trust to forge a solid relationship--that's what fascinated me about LLM. With her novels,  I read late into the night, never mind if I have to get up early to put Elias on the bus or go to work.  Doesn't matter.  Again, she's that good with the characterization and the pacing that her books are unput downable.  

As I've mentioned earlier, LLM's style has definitely evolved over the years.  Now her plots are straightforward in such a way that she focuses more on characterization.  By doing that, the focus shifts from the action of the plot line to the inner turmoil between the hero and the heroine.  You, dear gentle reader, see the emotions for each main character--emotions that are tangled and conflicted--slowly loosen and unravel. The story is the very untangling of that knot as the hero and heroine learn to trust one another and build a solid relationship.  As a writer, I appreciate this.

LLM's latest release, An Outlaw's Christmas, is a fine example of this.  Set in 1915 Texas, the hero, Sawyer McKetterick is ambushed and suffers a gunshot wound to the shoulder.  He makes his way, nearly unconscious, to the schoolhouse door where he collapses.  The heroine, Piper St. James, lives alone at the schoolhouse.  Of course, she can't leave Sawyer to bleed to death on her doorstep, but 1915 propriety standards also dictate that no unmarried woman will share a house with a man who isn't her father, brother, or uncle.  

Piper nurses Sawyer back to health and her reputation is ruined in the process. Ultimately, Sawyer and Piper marry to save her reputation.  Here's where the excellent writing comes into play.  A good portion of the book centers on why Piper agreed to marry Sawyer in the first place. Why she bowed to society's pressure when she didn't get involved with him sexually since he was unconscious some of the time anyway, nearly bleeding to death from a gunshot wound and all.  Piper notes the hilarity of the very notion but feels trapped just the same.  LLM gives equal measure to Sawyer's way of thinking lest you think his thoughts don't count.

If I want to be snarky, I could complain that the length of An Outlaw's Christmas doesn't really qualify it as a novel.  It's really a novella; it wasn't 200 pages long.  And even though I purchased this as an ebook on my NOOK Color I paid the same price as a paperback mass market.  I did it because it was LLM!

And yeah, I had to suspend my disbelief that 1915 Texas was still an unruly place that a man carried a gun on his hip, lawman or no, and shoot outs occurred on the main street of town.  Really?  It's 1915, not 1881 when the infamous gunfight at the O.K. Corral occurred in Arizona. And I'm a bit disappointed that Piper never explains how she came to be named in the first place even though  Sawyer asks, persists for an answer even.

I'm even willing to concede that the book has a neat and tidy ending that leaves me wanting more.  Beyond Piper and Sawyer sorting out how to get along as a married couple despite not loving one another at first, a series of misfortunes occur that are ultimately righted in the end.  (After all this is a romance novel and a happy ending is required.) But still, the ending is a little too tidy, if you know what I mean.

Having said all of that, An Outlaw's Christmas, is a quick, fun read.  For two nights, I was transported to the fictional town of Blue River, Texas where Piper St. James learns to love Sawyer McKetterick, a mysterious man of dubious reputation and after much ado about nothing, all's well that ends well, to borrow shamelessly from Shakespeare.

But really.  Isn't that why we adore a good romance novel to begin with.  To escape the realities of our own lives, even if for a few hours.  Forget about the dirty dishes and the unvaccumed floors. The kids and hubby are asleep.  Turn off that stupid TV. Relax with a good book.  An Outlaw's Christmas by Linda Lael Miller will do just fine.  

My Second Lesson

Today, I rode on Andy, a chestnut colored pony.  He's been with Joan for twenty years; she acquired him when he was four.

Joan had me trotting and posting.  That's when you lift your butt out of the saddle with the rhythm of the horse's jog.  I bounced more than I posted.

An hour later, my left knee screamed in pain and my foot and ankle tingled from going to sleep.

I didn't feel elated after this lesson as I did after my first one. Andy had a stubborn streak.  There were times he would just stop.  Just stop.  He was so well trained by Joan that he would follow her voice commands.  Moreover, he was so trained on what to do that he did it out of habit.  So by the end of the lesson, it was apparent that he just ignored me.

Combine that with my tendency to give him mixed signals by holding the reins too tightly or too loosely while he trotted and I posted--I mean bounced--in the saddle while trying not to fall out of the saddle.  Well, no wonder Andy ignored me and paid more attention to Joan.

At one point, Andy moved from a trot to a canter.  Somehow, I managed to stay in the saddle while Diane, the other instructor, chased after me to catch Andy by his bridle.  I pulled back on the reins.  Joan yelled "Andy stop."

Holy shit!

It was all over within seconds.  No harm done.  The situation just illustrates that I have much more to learn about riding a horse.

The first time

Last Saturday, I had my first horseback riding lesson at Clover Ridge Farm with owner Miss Joan.

After I sign a waiver, Katherine, a sixteen year old helper, escorts me through the dusty, musty barn to the tack room for a helmut.  It took us several tries to find one that fit and adjust the chin strap.  That done, Katherine walked with me to the pasture where Miss Joan waited with a horse who was already saddled English style.

Miss Joan quickly introduced me to Jester.  I wanted to take time to get to know Jester.  Have tea together.  Discuss our upbringing.  Come to some sort of understanding that he won't toss me off his back and I won't pull too hard on the reins and hurt him.  Miss Joan didn't give me anytime for such foolishness, no time to be nervous before she's holding my hand while I walk up a mounting block.  Put your left foot into the stirrup, she instructs, and then swing your right leg over.

I do as I'm told.  For a fraction of a second, I felt like I was going to tumble past Jester's neck.  An English saddle doesn't have the large horn like a Western style saddle has, so there isn't anyplace to hold onto for balance.  It's just me precariously balanced with one leg in the left stirrup and the other dangling mid air.  Somehow before pitching over Jester's neck, I flop in the saddle.  So graceful.

Joan helped me get my right foot into the stirrup (which you are supposed to do without bending over in the saddle and looking) as she explained that I'm supposed to rest the balls of my feet in the stirrup, not shove the entire foot into it.

Then she showed me how to hold the reins: pull back to stop, and tug left or right to steer.

Joan walked Jester through the small pasture, holding onto his bridle.  Katherine met us at the gate where she walked me around the ring.

It was awkward at first.  The movement of Jester's hips as he walked jostled my hips from side to side.  It wasn't until my second or third lap that I started to relax into his gait, moving with him instead of holding myself rigid.

Next are in-saddle exercises in the middle of the ring.  Diane is my teacher now, instructing me and my fellow student Jan to bend at the waist to touch our toes while sitting in the saddle.  And not fall out of the saddle, mind you.

Seriously?  Do you know how hard it is to lean forward in a saddle to touch your toes with nothing but stirrups to support you?  Hard!

Somehow I managed not to tumble out of the saddle.  

Diane takes Jan and I through a series of exercises like reaching forward, up, and behind your body (not holding the reins, of course) while using your legs to keep you in the saddle.  At one point, I actually stand up in the saddle with my arms stretched overhead as if I'm reaching for an apple that is just a little too high on a branch.

Yeah, it was difficult.

I did it, though.

After the exercises, I walked Jester over PVC pipes that were on the ground and walked Jester in a circle.  Katherine walked with me too, helping me navigate or steer Jester.  I was really concerned about tugging too hard on the reins and hurting Jester even though Katherine assured me that I would have to yank on the reins really, really, really hard to hurt him.  Still.  What's too hard when you've never done it before?

Now Joan resumes our instruction.  She tells me to maneuver Jester over and around a series of PVC pipes on the ground and to weave in and out of barrels.  This time it's just me and Jester.  This is where I really get the feel of hard or soft to tug on the reins to direct Jester.

I walked Jester in a tight circle inside a triangle of PVC pipes.  All by ten in the morning!  It was empowering to tell a 1200 pound animal to go left or right or stop and he listened!  (Unlike my children.)

By now, my knees are protesting with ache and my inner thigh muscles are burning mightily.  Joan helped me dismount.  Thank goodness, too, because my legs were wobbly.

I had so much fun!  Even though my legs ached for two days afterwards, I look forward to this Saturday for my next lesson.  

First days

Ethan, aged 4, started preschool on Tuesday morning.  He attends the same preschool Elias did with the same teacher, Ms. Marie.  Even so, we visited the school several times throughout the summer to reintroduce Ethan to Ms. Marie and his classroom.

He was nervous, of course, asking me if Elias was going with him to school?  Was he riding the bus with brother? Am I staying with him the whole time?

I stressed that he would have fun.  Learn to write his alphabet and numbers.  Learn to identify his colors.  Make art stuff.  

Elias is a seasoned first grader now, so he seemed to transition back to school with ease.  We visited with his new teacher on Friday before school started.  He seemed excited to see his friends again.  Come Monday morning, he quickly waved prior to climbing on the bus and he was off without a backwards glance.

Come Tuesday morning, preparation for school sailed along nicely.  Both boys were cooperative.  This time, Elias didn't even pause to wave or say goodbye prior to bounding on the bus.  He's a seasoned pro now.

Ethan, on the other hand, when I dropped him off, clutched his teacher Ms. Marie, his beautiful face scrunched up, crying as I left the room.  I pasted on a false smile, told him to have fun and I'd be back later to pick him up.  I quickly left the room so he wouldn't see the tears gathering in my eyes.

Tears because he was upset.  Tears because my boy is growing up, learning to be independent from his mother.  From his brother.  From his father.  All of us.  It's a contradictory, tender, doughy place in your heart as a mom on the first days of school.  On the one hand, you cheer that you start to evolve back to your autonomous self when the kids go back to school.  No little hands clutching at your legs as you try to vacuum.  No knocks on the bathroom door when you're peeing.

And yet, there is that silence.  The absence of little voices laughing and calling out MOM!

I went off to work that day, trusting that Ethan calmed himself down within a few minutes of my departure.  That he had fun.

And of course, he did.  According to Ms. Marie, he behaved as exactly as I trusted he would.  He calmed down and got to playing.

This morning, Elias woke up in a temper, declaring that he didn't want to go to school.  That he couldn't endure another day.  It's Elias's third day of school and already the attitude.

I just asked Ethan how he liked school yesterday, and he said it was boring.  Already the attitude.  

Kids!

Time for Prayer

I have a monkey mind.  I can't even focus long enough to finish a prayer in silent meditation.

This is how my mind wanders as I attempt mindfulness:

Deep breath.  Feel the breath fill up my lungs.  Feel my chest expand.  Feel my chest deflate as I slowly exhale.  Focus.

My lungs hurt. Burn a little, actually, from the humidity, which triggers my asthma.  Only in Maryland (ok, maybe all of the southeast, too) can you actually feel the air, it's so thick.)  I really hate humidity.  Is there any place to go without humidity that isn't 110 degrees in the shade?  Probably not. 

Oh, yeah.  I was praying.

My right knee is screaming because I'm sitting on the floor criss-cross applesauce style.  (Or Indian style but that's politically incorrect to say these days).  I'm too old to sit on the floor like this.

Oh, prayer.  Right.

Jesus.  What do you want me to do? Seriously.  Open my heart so I can learn my purpose.  Hear your calling.  Recognize the blessing of the Holy Spirit.

Maybe I should use my inhaler?  Where is my inhaler anyway?  I think I need to get that perscription renewed.  Ack.  That will mean a trip to the doctor's office.  Dumb, waste of time.  Just give me another inhaler.  Please and thank you.  It won't be that easy.  It never is.

Oh.  Back to prayer.  Focus.

I read Psalm 1.  Seems like as good as any place to start, followed by more prayer.

What else, Jesus?  I've resisted you for a very long time.  Apostasy.  Christian atheism as Craig Groeschel calls it and rightly so.  What more do I have to do to learn to trust you? To learn to trust in the Power of the Holy Spirit?

Does writing count as prayer?

"Mom!  Mom? Are you up there?" Thump, thump, thump.  Little feet pound up the stairs.  "You have to come see this.  Mummies are infecting the noses of the clone troopers."

Wait.  What? "Do you mean worms?"

Elias shakes his head vigorously.  His chest is heaving from rushing up the stairs, from excitement.  "Yes.  Worms.  They are crawling up the clone troopers noses and effecting them." (He means infecting but he says effecting.  It's cute.)

As Elias launches into a detailed explanation about worms infecting clone troopers and possessing them, I notice that he is pale.  There are dark circles around his eyes.  He's tired.  He is an early riser, my first born.  (He didn't inherit that trait from me.)  It's time for bed.

Prayer time over.  

Why my life should have been more like the movie Sixteen Candles, but wasn't

You know the iconic '80s film Sixteen Candles, right?  Molly Ringwald plays the character Samantha whose family, preoccupied with her older sister's wedding, forgets Samantha's sixteenth birthday.  She has a crush on Jake Ryan, Mr. Popularity, Captain of the Football team who is dating Caroline, Miss Popularity, Prom Queen.

It's all coming back to you now, isn't it?  Samantha with her individual style that is just left of center but not weird either.  She isn't a fashion plate.  She isn't a cheerleader.  She knows she will never be Prom Queen or Miss Popularity.

Unlike Samantha, my high school style wasn't just left of center.  It wasn't right of center either.  I had no style.  Like Samantha, I knew I would never be Prom Queen or Miss Popularity.  The likelihood of either of us capturing the heart of the Captain of the Football team was near impossible.  We both pouted over this.

Like Samantha, I nursed a serious crush on Mr. Popularity, Captain of the Football team himself: Duane K. Like the actor--Michael Schoeffling--who played Jake Ryan, Duane had an uncanny resemblance to the real Jake Ryan.  (I mean Michael Schoeffling.)

Like Samantha, I obsess over Duane like a "lovesick puppy" to quote Molly Ringwald's character.  I think half the girls at my high school obsessed over Duane; he was that hunky.  Just ask my friend Nicole.  

I wished. Hoped. Daydreamed that Duane would declare his unwavering love and affection for me in the halls of South Carroll HS.  Although I think he noticed my lovesick puppy ways, I think he was weirded out by it.  One day in study hall, he spit gum into my hair.  

That wasn't in the script.  

That minor setback didn't deter my affection, though.  After all, I was a lovesick puppy.  

In the movie Sixteen Candles, Samantha endures a series of embarrassing antics but ultimately gets Jake.  Although I endure a series of embarrassing antics, mostly perpetuated by my losery self, I don't get Duane in the end.  

Once Duane graduated, I never saw him again.  (I think he was a year ahead of me.  Maybe two.)  The last I heard he went off to college on a football scholarship. 

Fast forward twenty years later, it's 4:50 AM and I can't sleep.  I'm remembering my pathetic lovesick puppy ways and Duane and wondering whatever happened to that guy?

I gave into temptation and searched for him on Facebook.  (I know, I know.  I've reverted back to my lovesick puppy ways despite being happily married to Joseph for fourteen and half years. I'm pathetic.)  I don't find Duane.  I google him.  The only thing I find is his name listed on a national football foundation.  Well, duh.  He was the captain of the football team.  Beyond that, I've no clue what else he's accomplished.

A part of me doesn't want to know what he looks like now or whether he's building rockets for NASA or crunching numbers at a desk.  I want the hunky recollection from high school, not some aged guy married with kids.   (And I'm certain that he'd want me to keep my distance.  They have anti-stalking laws now. And rightly so.)

Why am I embarrassing myself, sharing this?  Because this little anecdote has the makings of a novel in it.  A love story twenty years after high school.  

I'm feeling inspired.   

Persistence

On Sunday afternoon, I went to the locally owned garden center.  All plants were 30% off.  Yeah, oh yeah!

I restocked my basil and rosemary, since I killed the rosemary.  The basil is limping along.  The original plant that is.  It's not dead.  Yet.  But it isn't thriving either.

So two new hearty basil and rosemary plants.  I also bought thyme.  The boys helped me transplant these babies in organic potting soil, which was also on sale.  The herbs are neatly arranged on our deck table, soaking up the sun.

While I was in the gardening mood, I transplanted a sweet chocolate pepper seedling.  Then I decided to get adventurous and start two more tomato seedlings and one more pepper seedling.  So far, the existing tomato seedlings are thriving.  I'm looking forward to home grown tomatoes for caprese salad and homemade salsa.  I have a recipe for peach tomato salsa that I'm eager to try.

In the process of transplanting, I managed to get potting soil all over my legs and arms.  I'm not sure how I managed to do that, but there it is.  I managed to get four mosquito bites despite wearing repellent.  That's so not fair.

Finally, I rounded out my purchases with some red impatiens and a dragon wing begonia. Very pretty.

I've taken some losses on my herbs, radishes, and onions but have had success with the tomatoes and pepper seedlings.

With gardening persistence is definitely a necessary trait or so I'm learning.

Growing my own vegatables

I still don't have any.  Vegetables, that is.

I bought tomato, radish, purplette onion, and a chocolate variety of sweet pepper seeds in the spring from Johnny's Selected Seeds.  (Love them!)  Oh and lettuce.

I thought I had the makings for a pretty nice salad.

My seedlings got off to a nice start.  This time around, I even took the time to harden them off--a step I usually skip.

After all that, my tomato sprouts are thriving.  That's about it.

Since the spring was unusually chilly, I didn't want to put out the radishes or lettuce for fear the chill would kill them off.  So I waited for warmer weather.  Turns out, I waited too long.

The intense heat from our deck fried the radish and lettuce sprouts to nothingness.   Even though our deck has great dappled morning sunlight, by 3pm, it's hot as hades out there.  The tomatoes love that but not much else.

I have one pepper sprout and one purplette onion hanging on.  I need to transplant the pepper seedling and see how it goes.  I have a basil plant limping along.  The mint is slowly growing.  The rosemary?  Long dead.

In the fall, I'll try planting radishes and lettuce again since they seem to like the cooler temperatures.  In the meantime, I'm gonna germinate another batch of tomatoes since that seems to be the only thing I'm capable of growing.

I'm imagining the bountiful harvest of sweet tomatoes right now.  Good thing I love a caprese salad.  

A trip to the zoo!

Yesterday, we gathered ourselves and drove down to the Smithsonian National Zoo.  We left just after 9 am, so traffic wasn't too bad.  It took us just over an hour.

Joseph is the picture taker in the family.  He didn't waste any time.  You meet this triceratops very quickly entering the park, and we needed a picture.  (It's not everyday one meets a triceratops).  I don't know what Ethan is looking at off camera.

The weather forecast called for a partly cloudy sky and little humidity.  They got that wrong.  The humidity was stifling and the sun was full on bright.



Joseph got some really good pictures of the lions, especially of this young one frolicking in the pool that surrounded their habitat.  There were four lions altogether.

 

 

 

There is a female lion in the foreground and a male lion against the wall, though it's difficult to see him since he blends into the concrete wall and the spotlight of sun.  Joseph didn't get a picture of the fourth lion.

A tiger looking regal.  

 


Both boys emerging from the water misters.  Believe me, it felt so good on such a humid day.

When we emerge from the Small Mammal House, we saw this:

 

Those are two orangoutangs walking on those ropes above the trees.  There are platforms at strategically placed intervals for the orangoutangs to climb on before moving along the ropes to the next platform.  They can access the platforms and ropes from their habitat.  What isn't pictured is the way both the orangoutangs helped each other.  One of the orangoutangs reached a platform first, he (maybe it was a she?) reached behind him to help the other one get onto the platform!

We were at the right place at the right time to catch this.

 

Here is another orangoutang inside her habitat.  She is playing with pooh in case you are wondering what she is doing.  That's the back of Ethan's head.  Like most of the kids surrounding him, they were enraptured with the pooh playing orangoutang.

In the same building, there were gorillas, although they were in a different room.  The gorillas were being fed by the zoo keepers.  One male ate very quickly, gobbling down banana slices one after the other.  I guess he was afraid someone was going to steal it.  Another male gorilla took his meal up to the tallest part of a tree and gobbled it down.  He seemed quite particular about not sharing it with the other gorillas.

By the time we got to the cheetahs, it was mid afternoon.  The sun was sweltering.  The humidity oppressive.  The cheetahs were sprawled on the grass of their habitat, napping in the shade.  Then, one gets up and trots over to the shade in another part of the habitat (pictured below).  Two others follow that cheetah.  Their bodies are so sleek and slender.  Did you know that a cheetah's stride is 23 feet when running at top speed during a hunt?  Yes, 23 feet!  (I know, right?)  

We tried following the cheetahs, moving along to another side of the habitat.  By the time we got there, however, the cheetahs were hiding in either tall grass or a den.  We weren't sure which.    But, we were still in for a nice treat.  In the next habitat over was another cheetah by himself (or herself?) pacing around.  Joseph caught it on video, although I'm having difficulty uploading the video to this blog.  (I'll try posting it to FB instead).  

A elephant house and the surrounding habitat was under re-construction.  We got a glimpse of one elephant hanging out amidst the construction.  No giraffes.  No rhinos.  No ostriches.  Not sure if those savannah animals were displaced during construction or what.  

We saw two giant pandas, one male and one female, in different rooms.  Both of the pandas sat with their backs to us gawking humans, noshing on bamboo.  

We skipped the bird house.  By this time it was late afternoon.  The heat was sweltering.  All of us were tired.  The boys were perilously close to a temper meltdown, so we decided to leave.  

Elias's favorite thing about the zoo was everything!  Ethan's favorite thing at the zoo?  Nothing!  I think he inherited the contrarian attitude from his mother.  

We had a good day all in all.  We'd like to return to the zoo once the construction is complete.  And I have a new family rule: no zoo visiting during the summer. It's just too darn hot.   I'd like to go back in the fall instead.  

Summer Vacation

On the second official day of summer vacation, we visited the Smithsonian Aerospace Museum near Dulles Airport.

Seeing the space shuttle Discovery was awesome!

Here is another picture for perspective.

Aside from the space shuttle, there were all sorts of planes and helicopters, ranging from early models to a stealth jet and a Concord.  The Enola Gay was there too.  It's so massive.  It's difficult to imagine that hulking plane ever getting off the ground.  Some of the early versions of helicopters were little more than a seat attached to rotors and a mechanism to steer it.  The person who flew that was seriously brave. 

Later in the afternoon, we went up to an observation tower, which was a former air traffic control tower.  Since it was raining, we could barely make out the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Unfortunately, we didn't see any planes coming in for a landing at Dulles Airport.  

We also watched an IMAX film about the Hubble Satellite, seeing pictures of the furtherest reaches of space known to man.  Some of these pictures were simply amazing.  The film also revealed a little about how astronauts train for space flight and showed actual footage of an astronaut crew repairing the Hubble.  

The boys had fun.  They were fascinated by all of the planes.  Ethan wanted to take some of the planes home.  He said Daddy could fly it home and then we could keep it in the living room.  (Oh sure, no problem.)  

Getting home was a headache.  It took two hours to drive 50 miles.  We got stuck on the Capital Beltway.  I'm glad I don't have to drive that everyday.  

Next week, it's the National Zoo. 

Rurally Screwed.

That's what I want to be.

That's what a gal named Jessie Knadler is.  Rurally Screwed.

In her memoir of the same name, Jessie K. recounts how she fled the very rurally screwed life of Montana for Manhattan at the age of seventeen only to return to that rurally screwed life, but this time in southern Virginia with her cowboy husband Jake.

See, I had similar aspirations.  I wanted to flee podunk, redneck Winfield, MD, although Manhattan wasn't my destination.  (Instinctually I knew I wouldn't survive there, spiritually speaking.  Wouldn't thrive there is what I should say.  You get my point.  Anyway.)

After I graduated from South Carroll, I fled Winfield and headed straight for southern Virginia to Southern Seminary College for Women in Buena Vista.  The college wasn't a seminary in the traditional sense.  It was a private, all girls junior college with a history dating back to 1868, not far from Lexington--home of Washington & Lee University and Virginia Military Institute--precisely where Jessie K. and her family reside now.

While at Souther Sem, I was gonna make myself over.  I was gonna transform myself from a socially awkward wallflower whose shyness came across as aloof.  I was secretly ashamed of how my dad and uncles had dirt permanently lodged under their fingernails, my grandmother's canning, the redneck trucks.   I never felt like I fit in.  I was gonna find myself a fine man who came from a long line of southern gentlemen.  Never mind that a college boy from the oh so preppy, private, very monied Washington & Lee University would have been attracted to me, in part most likely, to piss off his mother since my background no where near matched the expectations she would have had for her son.  No matter.  And forget about a VMI boy; they were way too patronizing.  (Sorry, Jessie K.)

In my mind, when I returned to podunk Winfield, no one would recognize me. They would be quietly stunned by my metamorphosis.   I had grand plans (and a rich interior life that doesn't always match reality).

I didn't last two months at Souther Sem.  I despised it there.  Here's the thing.  I went to the college because my mother wanted me to. I knew I wouldn't like it there, wouldn't fit into this monied world where we pretended rigorous academic life when in truth my seventh grade science class had been more challenging than any of my classes combined at Southern Sem.

For Pete's sake, the campus had a barn where the students could board their horses.  (To be fair, they did have an excellent equestrian team.)  You could take an equestrian class for your gym credit instead of the traditional gym class.  Not me, though.  We couldn't afford the extra fees associated with gym-class-as-equestrian-riding.

I share this with you to give you an idea of the level of gentility of this college.    

Students came from all over the South.  I think I was as "Yankee northern" as you could get even though Maryland is, technically, south of the Mason Dixon line.  Most of the students had been riding and show jumping since the age of grade school (if not sooner) or cheerleaders too stupid to attend any college but their parents, bless their hearts, couldn't condescend to enroll their precious daughters in community college.  Such a thing would be disgraceful and appearances meant a great deal.

I found the unspoken goal of finding a husband at nearby W&L University or VMI--the very goal I had, mind you--to be suffocating.

I didn't last two months.  I couldn't carry on the charade.  I despised myself.  For leaving Winfield in the first place, to think I could be better than anyone I left behind.  For coming to Southern Sem when deep, deep down I knew I wouldn't fit in.  For dropping out, that I wouldn't thrive there.  I personified self-mortification.

In February of the following year, I enrolled in community college.

What does this have to do with Jessie Knadler's memoir Rurally Screwed?  


Not a cotton pickin' thing.

But like Jessie K, we have learned not to make ourselves over in someone else's image, according to someone else's expectations.  Motivated by the belief that the self we have couldn't possibly be good enough so we transform ourselves according to the expectations that we think the other person has.  

This is a very difficult lesson to learn.

I will probably never be rurally screwed in southern Virginia or Oklahoma or Colorado, raising hens and writing in the attic of an old farmhouse because Joseph wouldn't be comfortable living in a place where people are outnumbered by cattle.  (I keep telling him that Oklahoma needs teachers too, but it falls on deaf ears.)

Jessie K. has made a life for herself on several acres with her husband and baby girl, a rescued dog and chickens.  Her memoir Rurally Screwed is engaging and heartbreaking at times.  But goodness and grace spring from that despair.

Stop what you're reading.  Set that book aside for now.  Instead, read Jessie Knadler's memoir Rurally Screwed.   It's that good.

P.S. Southern Seminary College for Women is now Southern Virginia University, a liberal arts college that "promotes the standards and values of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints."  That's so not even remotely what the college was when I was there.  For two months.  Just sayin'.

What's in a name?

Sebastiana Telphusa.

That was the name I conjured to be my pen name way back in high school when I day dreamed about becoming a writer.

I thought the name sounded sophisticated.  Cosmopolitan. Like I lived in Paris instead of podunk Winfield.

I practiced signing it over and over again, making sure the flourish of my contrived name looked just so.  Not too much flourish otherwise the name would be illegible.  But just enough to give it a je ne sais quoi kind of allure.

I know.  Ridiculous.

But now I really do need a pen name.

Any suggestions?  
  

Which is better?

The first paragraph of a book either invites you in to read more or kills it dead.  Furthermore, if the writer doesn't hook you in by the fifth page of the novel, then the entire book is dead on arrival.  Here's where you come in.  Here are two different openings to my current manuscript.  Which is better?  Which one makes you want to continue reading?

Option One:

        Seventy-eight cats.  That’s how many cats Alexandra Merriweather was going to die with.  Maybe a dog or two just because.  

She was certain of this despite the clichéd image of an old lady dying surrounded by too many cats.   

She wondered, too, whether or not she would ever marry.  Remarry, that is.  

A part of her knew that even thinking about the idea of remarriage was ridiculous, especially since her first marriage had ended in divorce.

Option Two: 

       Alexandra Merriweather wondered if she would ever marry.  

Remarry, that is.  

A part of her knew that it was futile to borrow trouble from the future by considering such an idea as remarriage.  Especially when her first marriage ended in divorce.  

And yet, here she was hiking up a steep trail in the state park where she and her now ex-husband had exchanged vows, overlooking a waterfall with their families and closest friends as witnesses.  Today, she had taken a personal day from her newspaper job to hike this very path she tread as a new bride three years ago.

Which one do you prefer, avid readers that I know you are.  Which one makes you say, yes, I want to read this novel?  Of course, you may not like either option and that's okay too.  Tell me so.  You won't hurt my feelings.  

Let the voting begin. 

This is how we play the game Candy Land at our house

Yesterday afternoon, Elias suggested that we play Candy Land.  Good idea.

Both boys clear the kitchen table of their toys while I grab the Candy Land box.

In a few moments, the board is spread out on the kitchen table.  Elias wants to be the red gingerbread boy.  Ethan chooses blue.  I want yellow.

At Elias's suggestion, we don't use the cards that come with the game that tells you how far to advance.  Oh no.  Instead, he dumps all of his piggy bank money onto the table and meticulously places all the pennies, dimes, nickels and quarters along the colorful Candy Land path.  We will use the money to advance in the game.  I'm not sure how the money will indicate how far or how little each player will advance during his turn, but suddenly, we are in a free for all grab of piggy bank money with strict instructions to avoid Lord Licorice.

Then Lord Licorice captures two gingerbread boys, casting an evil Zombie spell on them so the gingerbread boys are now Lord Licorice's minions.  In their Zombie state, they capture Lolly, Princess Frostine, and Mr. Mint.

Wait for it!  Army men to the rescue!  But some of the Army men are bad and side with Lord Licorice while others side with the remaining two good gingerbread boys.  Now, we have a civil war on our hands.  A terrible, terrible thing.

Here's the plan:  the two remaining good gingerbread boys are to lure the bad Army men into Mr. Gloppy's fudge swamp where they will get all sticky and stuck while two good Army men sneak over to Lord Licorice's hideout and disable the power source for the electrical fences imprisoning Mr. Mint and Lolly.  With the aide of Princess Frostine, we froze some of the bad Army men too.

Wait for it!  You must double jump over the electric fences to avoid getting shocked.  (Just one jump means you will get shocked, by the way).  Remember, double jump.

After a horrendous battle (don't forget to double jump) with many casualties on both sides, Lord Licorice is finally defeated, which causes Candy Land to implode and collapse.

Mama, can we do it again?

Well, sure.

If you live in a house full of girls, I bet you never played a game of Candy Land quite like this.

The tooth fairy came to call

Elias's top front tooth fell out yesterday afternoon. He's such a big kid now. Can you believe it?

Last night, he asked "How does the tooth fairy get into the house?"

Um? "Magic," I say.

"How does she know when to come?"

"I'll call her to her let her know your tooth fell out," I  lied.

"How does the tooth fairy lift me up to put the money underneath my head without waking me up?"

Um? "Magic," I respond.

"If the tooth fairy is so small, how can she be big enough to lift me up?"

Um? "Okay, Elias.  Enough questions.  It's time for sleep." 

The tooth fairy left $1.25.  Inflation.  

Shopping

Last Saturday, I went clothes shopping (alone!) for the first time in a long time.  As many of you know, I'm a big fan of the TV show What Not To Wear (although Stacy and Clinton would be appalled that I wear sneakers even when I'm not exercising).

For two hours, I tried on jeans, sweaters, and blouses.  Too big.  Too small.  Too long.  Too short.  Too big here, but too small there.  One after another.  Then back to the racks for more rooting and poking.

Each time I tried on a different pair of jeans, I repeat to myself like a mantra: "It's just a number.  It's just a number," referring to the size.  I'm annoyed that the sizes are not uniform among the different brands of jeans.  Of course, I'm looking for the perfect pair.  No mom jeans here.

Moreover, I'm getting annoyed at myself.  I typically don't look at my body in the mirror.  Some of my body parts sag, most of it is doughy.  Some might call it zaftig.  (That's an SAT word right there.  Look it up.)

Then I notice on the tag of the umpteenth pair of Levi's that the jeans are made in China.  An iconic American brand manufactured in another country.

Are there any clothes still manufactured in the USA?

Don't get me wrong.  I still bought that pair of Levi's despite my reservations.  After all, the jeans made me look less doughy.  Later,  I checked out the website for Levi's and they do good things: "profits through principles" and working with cotton farmers to use less water and chemicals on cotton.  All well and good.  Still.  An iconic brand of American jeans are manufactured in China.

What would it take to bring back the manufacturing to the USA?

The Seed Catalog!

I am excited!  The seed catalog arrived in the mail last week.  Pages and pages of beautiful vegetables, herbs and flowers.

Lavish abundance packed into tiny seeds.

Every January, I fantasize about all the tomatoes and herbs and flowers that I will grow on my desk.  In turn, I fantasize about all the homemade salsa from truly vine ripened tomatoes or pesto sauce that I will make with my abundant little container garden.  You will envy me.  I might even share.

What are your gardening plans?