I’m not fluent in any language other than English — though I can stumble painfully along in the particular dialect of Indirectese that my inlaws speak — but I’ve always heard it said that when you start dreaming in another language, you know you own it.
Last night I was in the midst of a dream in which bizarre things were being perpetrated around and upon me, and I thought, “I am so going to blog this.” And, still fully dreaming, began to reflect on precisely the angle I would take in the telling.
Please tell me you do this too, and it’s just a sign of stretching into a new sphere of fluency… right? And not an indication of, oh, say, addiction… because I hear tell alcoholics dream about drinking, too.
It may pain you to know this, and I am sorry, but I am not much of the decorating type. This is true not just of my house in general, but my approach to holidays as well.
As much as I adore Halloween, I’m not moved much beyond the pumpkin-carving aspect of accoutering our abode. MUCH to the chagrin and dismay of the resident six-year-old, particularly as we live directly in view of a family who believes every holiday deserves its full due of indoor and outdoor ornamentation. Yes, there are inflatables.
To appease Miss Megs, and because I thought it was fun and a great use for all those blessed plastic bags we can’t possibly get our newspaper delivered without, one early October day we made a dozen or so cute ghosts to hang in the trees.
Whaddya mean, you’ve never seen a green ghost? Don’t tell my girls. Me, I was amused by the double entendre. Green, and green, get it? Hah.
And because we have a Halloween advent calendar, courtesy some relative, I dutifully hung that baby up. And then, because there was still a lot of sadness and general gnashing of teeth and rolling of eyes over the great undecoratedness of our abode, I ponied up the idea that we could make it a tradition every year to go and pick out a new halloween decoration. I’m all about Making Childhood Memorable and Fun. Really, I am. I’m just not about buying, owning, or storing a bunch of stuff.
Megs immediately began lobbying hard for a full complement of faux tombstones like she saw in front of the house a few blocks down. I don’t mean to crush her dreams, but I can tell you there will be a real one planted with my name engraved thereon before there are any fake ones in my yard. Witches, ghosts, black cats, pumpkins, yes. Skeletons, graveyards, tombstones, scary shit or gruesome anything, not so much.
We settled on pumpkin-shaped lights.
But apparently that benefaction, and even the promise of more to come, didn’t quite live up to her vision of House Halloween. Because one weekend morning, these and others popped up all over the downstairs:
I hated to take them down, they’re so daggone cute, but hey — it’s time to start decorating for Thanksgiving, you know.
I’m just one vase of autumn-toned flowers on the table away from being done.
I don’t know what you call the standardized testing conducted in schools over your way, but we here in Virginia have the Standards Of Learning. And trust me, the SOLs are a horse that has been bludgeoned by thousands more learned and articulate than I. So not to worry, I ain’t a-going there.
I don’t pay so much attention, but I remember that “Symbols of America” or somesuch was covered last year in kindergarten, and this year they seem to be revisiting and expanding the theme. The Statue of Liberty, Washington Monument, bald eagle, the flag, yada yada.
And because nothing gets your hard-working public educators giddy like a good SOL tie-in — looky see, our curriculum is pertinent and meaningful and useful! — each November the first-graders get to put on a Patriotic Program. See? It ties in to Veteran’s Day. Do they do this where you are?
We had ours today. 70-some first-graders in patriotic garb, with accessories, singing songs like This Land Is Your Land and Yankee Doodle and You’re a Grand Old Flag and reciting this and that is pretty dang cute no matter what you think of standardized testing.
My favorite part of the evening’s performance was the synchronized camcording team: a row of dads lined up against the wall, each standing at precisely the same angle, elbow cocked to wield the ‘corder, wearing the identical amused/proud grin. I left my camera at home, more’s the pity, because that would have been SUCH a great shot.
Well, maybe, just maybe, that was only my second-favorite part of the performance. Because Megs — my soft-spoken, cautious, hyper-aware girl — had been assigned the closing salutation of the evening.
She was excited about it at first, but then nervous: “Mom, I think the teachers should have known that I am not someone who is comfortable talking in front of a lot of people I don’t know!”
Indeed, no.
And so I wouldn’t have given you very good odds on it, but I am here as your witness: her voice rang out in that gym loud and clear and cadenced, yes it did. And my heart got as big as the smile on my face.
She stuck it. Yes, she did. And she knew she did, and that was even better.
If only they had a confidence SOL to teach to. A believe-in-yourself SOL. Now, wouldn’t that be a curriculum we could all get behind?
So, here’s the obligatory Halloween-costume shot, though I didn’t realize it was out of focus until now. Blame it on the wine lighting.
I got off so easy this year I’m practically cringing in embarrassment just thinking about it.
Because when Kira started talking about what she thought she might be, I led her quickly down the Purple Kittycat avenue and she, good second child that she is, never veered course. I am costume crazy, but I am also lazy: for every handmade costume, there is a season, and it is two seasons long. Minimum.
I couldn’t quite figure it out, but for some reason, maybe because the whole suit was just a little big on her, or maybe because I got the angle on the ears wrong this time, she somehow looked much, much more like a Wild Thing — or maybe just a purple Max — than the sweet kitty that I swear Megan did.
I’m not sure how that happened, but with the recent Wild Things movie release, it all tied in just fine. She had whiskers and a pink nose and pure astonished delight that everyone she glanced at shyly put candy in her pumpkin.
And I swear, I was all set to hand-craft Megan’s tiger swallowtail wings using coat hangers, black stockings and who knows what all else, consuming the better part of my free hours in early October, when I happened onto a pair online that she deemed perfect. For seven-ninety-nine plus nominal shipping. SOLD, to the lazy lady with the charge card.
I already had that black shimmery bodysuit because when you are a little wacked about costuming and you find one of those at Goodwill, oh you snap it up then and there even if it is, and it was, the middle of December. Some moms shop seasons ahead; I shop Halloweens ahead.
One headband, two pipecleaners, two fuzzy balls, an inch of hot glue later and she was good to go. Criminal, I tell you.
It was such a fun evening, and completely devoid of even a flicker of last year’s Halloween meltdown. Score one in the treat column.
After a brief flirtation with true autumn weather, the first part of the week turned back into late summer, with temperatures calling for bare legs and whatnot.
But yesterday I togged up, tossed Kira in her Halloween costume and then in the Burley, and headed down for a stint of Trunk-or-Treating in the preschool parking lot.
As I headed out the driveway, it became apparent that it was — can you guess? — raining. Not hard, but enough to qualify as a drizzle.
Of course it was. Not that I’m paranoid or anything, but I’m just sayin’ it seems like this year that as soon as I cinch up my cycling shoes, an alert goes out to the gods of precipitation. Seems it’s their equivalent of tones dropping at a fire station: Everyone starts hollering, and then they promptly drop whatever else they’re doing, slide down the rain barrel and run to crank up the cloud machine. And I get to sport yet another set of grime lines.
I’d teamed up with another mom, and she brought the trunk, not to mention the majority of the treats. Me, I brought some Smarties and my winsome personality. And sitting there, passing out treats to adorable preschoolers in precious costumes, my dampness turned to chill and then to cold and I decided two things in quick succession: 1. Bail on ride; do yoga instead, warm and dry inside. 2. Make soup.
Back home, with #1 accomplished, I turned to #2.
I collect soup recipes the way some women accumulate accessories: There is no such thing as too many lentil-soup recipes, or black pumps.
All those recipes, but I only had eyes for one.
Around here we call it Sarah’s Soup, but I think she calls it Farmer’s Pot. Regular readers may recall that Sarah’s the one who brought us, and thus you, Lentil-Chickpea Delish. Short Long hours later she brought Baby Sam into the world, but that’s a different story.
I had to stretch my “local” definition for sourcing, because summer squash is long gone, but I didn’t suffer much over it. How can you possibly feel bad about this many veggies together in one place, after all?
Farmer’s Pot, a la Sarah
Use a nice big heavy pot for this.
Saute in a couple swirls of olive oil, until onions are translucent:
2 med onions, chopped
4 large carrots, in bite-size chunks
3 celery stalks, cut on diagonal
add and saute 1 min more:
3 cloves garlic, chopped fine
add, and bring to a boil; boil about 10 minutes:
1 bottle spicy V8 (46oz)
2 c broth
1 large (28oz or so) can whole tomatoes
1 can tomatoes with green chilies
1 can stewed tomatoes
Add and continue boiling for 15 or so minutes:
head of broccoli, chopped (about 3c)
head of cauliflower, chopped (about 3c; I used frozen)
2 zucchini, in bite-size chunks
2 yellow squash, ditto
Add and boil 10 minutes more:
4 c cooked dark red kidney beans (or 2 cans)
2 c cooked cannellini beans (1 can)
2T dried oregano
1/2c or so fresh basil, chopped
couple shakes cayenne
1/2t spicy seasoning (Mrs. Dash)
1/4t nutmeg
2t sugar
Sarah says: Don’t worry if it looks awfully thick to start with. Once the veggies cook up, it will be just right.
A caution: the above makes a colossal amount of soup and a perfect opportunity to invite friends over, or stock your freezer. A nice sourdough, or really any good bread, complements superbly.
Do you have certain music that you can listen to over and over without getting tired of it?
Because Kira does. And her current favorite, which she requests now every time we get in the car, I have only myself to blame for.
I have loved the music from Jesus Christ Superstar for about twenty years. I own the soundtrack from the movie and know most of the words to all of the songs. However, there are a number I won’t attempt to sing along with because even to my own ears, in my own car all by myself (or with an uncritical small audience), my voice isn’t anywhere in the realm of doing justice to them. Mr. Webber writes some tough tunes.
One of those that is out of reach of mortals is “Gethsemane,” sung by Jesus (Ted Neeley). And that, my friends, is Kira’s passion. “Play the man with the poison, Mommy!” (That would be the lyric, “Take this cup away from me/for I don’t want to taste its poison.”)
I thinks she likes it because he, literally though musically, screams in it. And she gets to scream right along. On key, thankfully.
I love the song myself. But I have to confess I have found myself grateful lately that entire days go by when we do not get in the car, because the only thing more wearing than hearing the same song for an entire trip is hearing it requested for an entire trip.
On a whim I went online yesterday, thinking I should really go see it live sometime, hello.
Woe was me when I saw that it played just a few hours away back in March ‘09 (how did I miss that??), but I’ve decided it might just be worth a longer trip to see Ted Neeley himself perform as Jesus. I bet he’s got it down pretty well: he’s been playing the role, off and on now, for about 40 years. And while I wouldn’t necessarily bet on it, who knows? This might be his last tour.
Along about last spring, we became aware of a constant, odd pittering noise coming from the front of the house.
It turned out to be a squirrel who had decided that the little seed buds on our dogwoods constituted a fine mealtime buffet. What we were hearing was the empty pods, hundreds on hundreds of them, being cast aside and hitting the stone and concrete steps of our front stairs.
We learned to walk carefully, cos those little pods are sharp and, en masse, a little slippery.
Then began the foraging in the garage. Safe neighborhood and all that, it must be said (I know, people, I know I KNOW) that we were in the habit of leaving the door up, along with the windows open in the car.
What the squirrel apparently discovered was that floor of the car was a total bonanza: a delightful, delectable repository for stray cheerios, pretzels, and such. To the point where last summer it GNAWED THE RUBBER off the window seal on the MPM’s car when he — most inconsiderately — put them all the way up, thus denying easy access.
We learned to close the garage door. Mostly. Though I did come upon him rummaging about in MY car one day and, I confess, I screamed. I mean, I really screamed. I’m no girly girl but the daggone thing STARTLED me. Kira still talks about it.
So. Here it is, autumn. Here are our lovely Jack-O-Lanterns that I carved with the girls on Sunday. They dictate the design; I am old-fashioned and lazy and carve freehand with an old paring knife. Feel free to judge harshly my creativity and finesse, however.
Oh, wait; no. Fact is we don’t have a photo of how they appeared on Sunday. What we have is our Jack-o-Lanterns as they appeared on Monday, in a state that Kira termed “different and more scarier” — indeed, note the gruesome effect wrought by That Damn Squirrel:
And both the others lost their teeth.
Hear me now, Mr. Squirrel: we do not begrudge you the natural abundance of the dogwoods, nor even the occasional breakfast cereal. But defacing Jack-o-Lanterns? Is just that one step over the edge. Operation Rodent Relocation will commence at dawn.
Words, that is. Because each of the following photos had at least vague intention of being a dedicated blog post. And, as always, I cringe at the quality of the pictures, and resolve that Santa should bring me a groovy new camera this year.
We had a lovely Labor Day treat staying with Kate and her family at their fab cabin in NC:
First day of school. Note the single top tooth, shifted to center. I pleaded to pull it the night before, but to no avail:
Guy-camping at a local campground, a late-summer tradition:
If you closed your eyes after looking at Megan’s outfit on this day, you could still see the color contrast on the inside of your eyelids. She got a LOT of compliments/comments, and so did I:
Sisterly silliness. This Chicco train has logged enough miles for a transcontinental crossing. Definitely one of our best toy investments ever:
Okay, that’s all she wrote took. For today, at least. Hope you enjoyed the “less is more” theme.
We live three blocks from the elementary school entrance. Most mornings, the MPM drops Megs off on his way to catch the commuter bus, with a firm 7:30 departure. When he’s out of town, as he is yet again this week, I bundle Kira up, still in her pj’s, and we three careen out the door and down the hill in the jog stroller usually at about 7:40.
This morning, lordamighty, Megs was up and dressed and breakfasted by 7:20. Never happens. However, Kira was still sound abed, which is equally rare.
I decided to wait until 7:25 and then call the next-door neighbor, mom to Megs’ dear friend, and ask if she would mind taking my girl too.
At 7:22 the phone rang. It was NDN, saying she’d slept late, her little one was still asleep, her husband was out of town, and would I be able to take her big girl with me?
I laughed and said Sure, and how bout you can do tomorrow?
After hanging up, realized an even better option lay in another call:
And indeed, both girls walked with the up-the-street neighbor and his kindergartner. Voila, a village.
And Kira slept until almost 8a.m. which is pretty much a record for her, and woke up even happier than usual, which is sayin something.
My love affair with Halloween is, fundamentally, about two things: candy corn, and costumes.
Regular readers know I feel eating locally and seasonally is important. I consider candy corn seasonal to October and, like cherries in June, I do my best to consume enough during their short season to tide me over the long months between.
I think my delight in the costume aspect comes from time dating a clown. To be sure, I dated a number of men who could qualify for the title, but only one who made a portion of his living at it. Frankie T, aka Crossroad the Clown, was a great entertainer and an inspired costumer.
Every now and then I got to join in on one of his gigs, and I thought it was honestly about the most fun you could have with your clothes, or rather someone else’s, on.
Nowadays I only do it once a year, but I haven’t missed a Halloween in ages. Somewhere in a shoebox is a collection of photos over the years, and someday maybe I’ll track it down and give my brother, the tech gadget king, the opportunity to run ‘em through his groovy new ultra-tech scanner so I can share the love and the silliness.
There was the classic “Madonna with Child” — or perhaps not so classic, involving as it did a diapered baby doll and coned Blonde Ambition Tour bustier. My date was, naturally, the Holey Ghost. (A woman of paralyzing Catholic faith hissed at me, “That’s not funny.” Um, au contraire, Your Righteousness.)
Marge from Kissimmee Florida, complete with dyed red hair, 30 extra pounds stuffed into her capris, and spectacular cankles.
Miss Conception, whose one-piece bathing suit showed off her baby bulge (aka my bike helmet).
Gritty the Thru-Hiker, with full facial hair and a blonde female companion of astonishingly ugly persuasion (that would be the MPM).
The list is long, and without photos I won’t bore you further with my self-proclaimed cleveritude.
So indeed, I’ve been to a lot of Halloween parties over the decades. But I have to say, none even close to holding a candle to the one that we’ve found ourselves lucky enough to be invited to the last couple years. There are easily a couple hundred attendees, and nary a one sans costume.
And not any old lame costume, either. As with ‘Ween parties everywhere, you can’t swing a bloody ax without hittin cleavage, of course, but there’s also plenty of wit and style, not to mention time and effort. Honestly, you might think you were in New York or L.A. rather than little ole backwoods small Southern city us.
The house decorations are nothing short of incredible, the hosts are prodigiously generous with their food and bar offerings, and I’m thinking it’s entirely possible they imported the DJ from a much bigger city. He worked his boyscout-uniformed behind off and the dance floor was packed the entire night.
Costumes and liquor drinks are a dangerous combination for me, as is, admittedly, dancing and liquor in most any form. Long after Cinderella had taken off in her pumpkin coach, I’d worn out the MPM and resorted to a sturdier companion:
that robot can dance!
And in case you’re wondering what the heck kind of costume is THAT, Miss All-About-Halloween, this may clear it up:
achoo!
When you lack cleavage of illustrious proportion, you gotta go with the wit. What a fun night. (Thanks to Katie, aka Glinda the Good, for the photos!)
OMG: I just Googled “Crossroad the Clown” and found a video about him and his son, and his 30 years’ volunteering with Camp Good Days & Special Times in upstate New York. It’s not great, but I had to include it. Just because. My friends used to refer to him as “The Voice.” 20-some years ago he had, let’s just say, a lot more hair on his head (and a lot less on his ARMS??!!?), but the voice, yes The Voice, is the same.
OMG, Part II: Through the power of Facebook… I bring you Crossroad the Clown, 2009! What a riot.
I learned something new last night, and it was the kind of fun fact that just needs to be shared. Aren’t you excited? I am.
If you participate in running races or large-scale organized bike rides, you probably know that a common technique for route marking involves small symbols spray-painted, often stenciled, on the road. I’ve seen scads of them over the years, often just running or riding along and realizing I’ve stumbled onto the course for some past or future event. Some are stylized for their particular event, but many are generic, a circle with a line or an arrow, indicating straight, left, right.
What I learned last night is that those little marks have an actual name. Who knew?
Check this out: they’re called Dan Henry Arrows, or just “Dan Henrys,” and some sources indicate they’re used world-wide, though I don’t personally have any knowledge of such and won’t state it as firm fact until I return from my upcoming grant-funded continent-spanning journey undertaken to confirm precisely how widespread their use is.
Sheldon Brown’s exhaustive online Bicycle Glossary tells us that Dan Henry was a very influential cyclist in the ’50s and ’60s, most famous for the “‘Dan Henry Arrow,” an arrow painted on the roadway with a stencil or a spray can.
It goes on to share that Mr. Brown was also known for roller demonstrations, where he would perform a strip-tease while riding on rollers.
I find that vastly amusing and might even pay to see footage of it. Mostly because anyone who’s ever attempted to ride a set of rollers can tell you that just staying upright on the damn things is something of a trick all on its own.
Courtesy TourDePeaks.com
That little glow you’re feeling right now is no doubt the sign of a life more fulfilled. Aren’t you glad you clicked?
One of my treasures happens, because I’m lazy and forgot to put it up, to be sitting about 8 inches from my right hand at this moment.
It’s petite, but it has a sweet heft. I keep it in a kitchen drawer, where it is handily available for minor measuring tasks. Its residence there is a source of occasional exasperation to the MPM, who gets annoyed that 72 inches is too often too short once he gets to measuring.
But I refuse, no matter how many times he rolls his eyes and sighs audibly, to let its spot in the drawer be usurped by some Taiwan-made plastic-encased 10′ Craftsman.
Not only do I savor its hand-feel, but I know that that tape — a “Mezurall,” manufactured by the Lufkin Company in Saginaw, Mich., heaven knows how many years ago — is the finest token of a man’s appreciation as I could ever have.
It was given to me long ago with the words, “This was my grandfather’s. I want you to have it.”
I was reminded of the depth of its meaning when reading this excerpt, from Rick Bragg’s remarkable memoir All Over But The Shoutin’. Speaking of his maternal grandfather, he says:
“My brother Sam still has his old carpenter’s tools. He hung them, like a shrine, on the inside of his shed. He said he just likes to look at them sometimes, and doesn’t have much more to say on it than that…. I believe that to him those rusted, pitted hammers, rasps and crowbars not only remind him of the first grown man who ever treated him with any kindness and love, but also represent a simple, basic principle of a man’s worth, one a man can live a whole life by.”
It’s quite a book. I’m not done yet, but it isn’t as if there’s a suspense ending; it’s about the writing, and the writing is superb. Recommended.
Monday was a gorgeous day, sunny and 70ish. We took advantage of it, heading back down to the playground at 5:00 with bikes and friends and a hodgepodge picnic dinner of fruit and summery fare.
And then the rest of the week led straight into autumn of the chilly damp gray sort. Notice how my concept menu, drafted Tuesday, directly reflects same:
Chickpea-Lentil Delish (Tues)
Lentil-Barley Stew* (Wed)
Beans and Rice (Thurs)
Colcannon* (Fri)
Saturday Date Night, WooHoo!
Pot Roast (Sun)
How about you? What meals do you crave when it’s gloomy and gray outside, or in?
*I really must post this recipe. Someone remind me, okay??
October marked the beginning of homework in Megan’s 1st-grade classroom. She came home last Monday with a ziploc of cut-out words and a daily chart of tasks to accomplish. Monday: Sort words into three categories; write them out. Tues: Sort words; alphabetize; write out. Wednesday: Sort words, write 10 sentences using words. Thursday: Do a mock test to prep for Friday’s classroom test.
It’s spelling, but they are all about the patterns. Yet another well-meant though futile attempt to impose some pretense of order onto English word construct.
Megan, bless her lil rule-followin heart, was THRILLED to have homework. But along about Thursday she said, “Mom, it’s boring. I want harder words and more categories.”
I wrestled with myself. And finally, because she had verbalized exactly what she wanted, I sent off an email to her teacher. Who has, btw, 22 students and no aide. “At the risk of pegging myself as a helicopter parent… hope to keep her engaged… let me know what I can do… totally understand if it’s too much to ask….”
Got back a prompt reply email saying “No prob. I’d be happy to give her different words.”
Wow. Cool. To quote the girl herself, “Goodie!”
So today, Monday, she comes home with this week’s words, 24 of ‘em. They seem like they’re right about in the ballpark. She has new and improved rules to sort by. And a whole little tic-tac-toe grid of homework choices. She tells me she has to choose three tasks, and include the center (Written Pattern Word Sort).
She began sorting. It took awhile. Then she coughed and the freakin little tabs of paper went shooing across the table. Re-sort. Then she alphabetized (Task 2), and wrote them out in order. A half-hour and two tasks down.
Next she picked the option to choose two words out of each category and, using a newspaper or magazine, re-create the words using a ransom-note approach. The other options were equally daunting, including looking up and writing down definitions for 10 words, or writing 10 complete sentences using all 24 words.
A tad dismayed, I fetched the newspaper and scissors. The breadth and scope of this undertaking became immediately clear to me as teeny snippets of 8-point type began covering the table. “I’m going to cut them out and then sort them.” I stepped in. “See what letter you need and THEN cut it out. And let’s use headlines.”
Time passed. d-e-c-a-y, snip snip snip. The neighbor girl gave up waiting and went home. a-g-a-i-n, snip snip snip. Dinner harkened. a-w-a-k-e, snip snip snip. Kira complained of hunger. m-a-y-o-r, snip snip snip. Darkness fell. c-r-a-y-o-n, snip snip snip. c-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e, snip snip snip snip snip frickin snip. Gimme those scissors: ch-oc-o-late.
A faint flush of panic welled up in me. See what I get for asking to challenge my child? Dear god, we’re talking 2 hours of homework a night. Is this some sort of sadistic teacher revenge, an attempt to ensure no one ever asks for exceptions for their child? Do I suck it up?? Do I cry uncle?? I have to cry uncle. I have to. I can’t do this to Megan OR to me.
I send an email: She’s very excited about the homework. Perhaps she could choose to do TWO tasks? And btw, we worked together on the ransom notes cos dinner was imminent and it was a new concept. Hope that’s okay. Hover hover hover, love and kisses.
And then, this evening, after the MPM arrived home and I was sharing about the day and pulled out the tic-tac-toe grid and actually read the instructions, rather than taking Megan’s word for it?
“Complete 3 activities for homework each week.”
Each WEEK.
Oh.
Well. It’s always nice to get your homework out of the way early, right? Like Monday.
Posted by Amy 
Posted by Amy 
Posted by Amy 
