Christmas Quack-Along

This week I visited my grandma, and she tried to convince my sister and I to haul off and use all her old Christmas decorations. I am not much into red velvet bows, baskets of fake poinsettias, and bears wearing red plaid scarves, but the singing goose? Now that was a find.

When I unloaded all the stuff (most of which we will pass on to someone else), I set the goose on the stairs and turned it on. Then I stood behind a doorway to spy on the reactions. Of all the kids it was Sadie who arrived on the scene, eyes gleaming like she came upon a treasure. She looked around the room hesitantly, then picked it up and examined it - its moving beak, its floppy "wings." None of the other kids were into it (in fact Benjamin spent the afternoon attempting to avoid it).

So here we share a poorly lighted playtime from this evening when the goose brought some Christmas cheer. And, yes, I need to do something about that burned out strand of lights on the tree. I have already attempted to replace the fuse AND many of the individual lights. Poop.

Isabella's Second Birthday

Bella turned two in September and we celebrated her birthday simply - an after church treat of donut holes and a visit from Auntie Bek and Uncle Mike and cousin Caleb (who she adores).

While everyone was excited to celebrate her, she was just...tired and cranky.

I wouldn't even mention it, but I feel some explanation is needed for her expression in all the photos - ranging from nonplussed to hesitant, from mildly interested to wildly over it. About a week before she turned two, she turned two (if you know what I mean).

Nevermind, Bella Roux, we love you anyway through and through.

Looking Back at Summer

It's cold enough here that no one would dream of playing in a kiddie pool right now, but I have a few moments to edit some photos from the end of summer. And even though I love bright colors, I thought I would do it in black and white so that the pictures reflect the kids' expressions more than their environment. There's not much to say except to mention that all the pouty images at the end are due to having to "take a break" for unacceptable behavior. Time out stinks, right?

Playing at the Park

Adoption Hard Stuff...Like Death

We know that adoption happens because there's stuff that makes parenting appear impossible. And many times that stuff is big and hard. Last month that big hard stuff resulted in our son's birthfather leaving the earth tragically and by his own hand.

We only saw his birthfather occasionally - partly because of the physical distance between us, and partly because of the big hard stuff in his life interfering with his ability to be very demonstrative. But we always knew he cared.

He called sometimes, and we talked about Benji's challenges, and I asked him how he felt at that age - what would have made his life easier in school. He told me he appreciated our parenting style. He sent money for some enrichment activities one summer. He cleaned up his old G.I. Joe figures and sent them to Benji. He found kids' books about science, and he made a gift from time to time for him. Yes, he cared, greatly. I know that these gestures took much effort on his part to accomplish, and they are precious. So very precious.

Whenever we did see him, he wanted to make the time together meaningful. We went on walks in his favorite places. He wanted Benji to know the places that he loved.

So when he passed, we told Benji the truth. The truth about the how and why. We told it gently and clearly, following the wise counsel of a therapist who deals in adoption, grief, and loss. We want our boy to know we would never lie to him. We want our boy to have empathy and to see the tragedy in it. We want our boy to know that taking one's life is never the best option, that it does have consequences for everyone who loves you. And we want our boy to know that no matter how things ended, we still love, respect, and miss his birthfather.

After we got through the tough discussion with him and Sadie (she's just as mature as he is with stuff like this), we asked him how he'd like to honor his birthfather. We were too far away to make it to the service, but we could have our own service here.

We thought about how he loved nature. And we thought about how we could symbolically "release" him. Thus we found ourselves at the lake looking for rocks. Benji wore a floppy hat that looked like the hats we had often seen his birthfather wear.

Benji found a rock he liked and wrote his birthfather's name on it with a yellow crayon. (It doesn't really show up because of that, but he chose the color himself.)

Then we shared things we appreciated about his birthfather. Each of us said something that we loved.

And then he threw the rock into the water.

Comprehending such a loss at the age of seven is something that will happen over time and in layers of understanding as he matures. We know we will revisit much of what we discussed. But the key here is openness and letting him have his feelings of loss whenever they do present themselves.

Shortly after, we put a candle in the window on National Suicide Prevention Day. No one else on our block had a candle in their window, but perhaps that is something Benji will one day want to share with our neighbors. Perhaps it will be a way of working through the big stuff.

If you wish to contribute to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, you can make a tax deductible donation by clicking here. My sister is participating in the Out of the Darkness walk that raises funds for the AFSP. 100% of your donation goes to the foundation. As Benji gets a little older, it may be something he decides to participate in, too.

Saying Goodbye to my Grandma

Earlier this month my grandma passed away. She was a tough and feisty woman, bred in the harsh Arizona desert during her formative years. She was an artist - a painter and musician - and a researcher, compiling extensive geneological history on our family. She was also a woman who provided safe harbor for many people beyond her family, and who held her own family in her hands openly, overlooking many faults and always ready to bring people back into the fold.

We were fortunate to spend several hours with her those last days in hospice. Of all my kids, the only one I brought with me was Sadie Lou, because she is a people person, because she knows how to be comforting, and because she is not rattled by things like death. She was incredibly sweet, stroking her great-grandmother's hair and telling her it was beautiful. Kissing her on the cheek and gently rubbing her arm. We read a book to my grandma, and told her the things we loved and remembered about her.

For her memorial service, I wrote a poetic sort of tribute. It follows the slide show here. My two sisters and I read it, alternating lines. And the slides - I put that together as well, with some help from a talented uncle who was able to make legible images of the old photos.

I am so proud that this woman, with all her quirks and strengths, is a part of my life and heritage.

MEMORIES OF GRANDMA

Edith was a child of the desert.

The dust settled into her soul and clung long after she made her home by the sea. The happy days of an untamed youth spent skipping over scree on the side of a mountain and diving into water holes to escape the heat - they lived brightly in her memory until her hair turned white and her hands gnarled from arthritis.

Her hands.

Knobby fingers prancing on the keys of a piano or strumming a shrill autoharp.

Hands that knew Joplin, Crouch and Gaither tunes like old family members. Hands that played gospel and ragtime with a bounce.

She was feisty,
creeping
sneaking up on you
from around the corner
behind a door
through the opening in a staircase

She would leap out with that quow! that would send you right out of your skin.

And oh, how that made her chuckle! Eyes squinting, shoulders bouncing.

Oh, how fun it was to spook the kids and the cats!

All those cats. So many, she would never give you a straight answer if you asked her how many called her home their own.

All those cats with fancy names like Garage Kitty, Siamesee,
Roof Kitty and Bob,
Stubby, Chica, Mama Kitty,
Grey, Boots, and Red.

All those cats that lounged in rafters, atop the kitchen TV, on couches, and under coffee tables.

Cats that flitted out of sight when you chanced upon them in the backyard, her jungle of potted plants and benches,

blackberry bushes and gravel,

honeysuckle and trumpet vines,

and what looked, to a grandchild, to be a bottomless pond filled with the biggest gold fish you ever saw, patchy skinned with bulging eyes. The smell of algae damp along the edge.

The smells of grandma’s house - a hint of litter box and Lysol spray, moth balls in the closets, beef stew and laundry detergent, warm bodies and old perfume.

M.A.S.H. playing on the black and white TV set in the kitchen as she made dinner, or J. Vernon McGee preaching from the radio in the garage as she ironed and folded laundry, puttering around the always warm house in her muu muu and slippers, hair wrapped up in rollers and covered with a sheer scarf.

Sipping an icy Tab. Or Coke.

Always soda.

Never water.

Her home was a treasure trove of surprises:

Whitman’s candy boxes filled with antique Matchbox cars or glittering costume jewelry,
baskets of play food,
a tin of broken crayons,
pastels for drawing,
tiger eye marbles,
dress up clothes and puzzles.
Reader’s Digest and National Geographic collections spanning years.

The gold-flecked popcorn ceilings, the art glass in the windows, the burglar bars and front gate.

And Granddad seated at his desk paying bills or reclining in a chair as Family Feud or basketball played across the screen,

or maybe some show that had stock numbers ticking across the bottom.

And 60 Minutes, always the tick-tick-ticking clock of 60 Minutes.

The air was warm eternally,

and in the summer the curtains were closed,

and in the dimness box fans roared, blowing air through wet hand towels for cooling.

Some areas never cooled, like the loft in the garage. The loft where a child or two could hide out and color, or read, or explore the little boxes and tins.

The loft where one could sit and watch grandma sweat her way through the laundry.

The humid loft that often smelled of darkroom chemicals used by a long-haired photographer uncle who showed up from time to time.

It was grandma who taught me to put ketchup on my white rice and to appreciate coconut macaroons,
peanut butter softened with honey and butter spread on Ritz crackers,
oatmeal cookies with raisins.

I never got around to liking boiled carrots and potatoes, no matter how many times she served me beef stew.

Her paintings could be seen in all directions - some hung on walls, and one was always on an easel waiting for the oil to dry,
waiting for a moment between meals
or visits with grandchildren
for the next brushstroke.

Edith, child of the desert, took us camping.
She taught us to read scat and lick rocks.
She taught us what was Fool’s Gold.
She fed the creatures until the chipmunks sat on her lap.
So many furry creatures.
Sometimes the smell of pine,
sometimes dust and sage brush.

She sketched the landscapes she saw, and later filled them in with ink or water colors. Desert scenes, wildflowers,
mushrooms and trees.

She always had something interesting to tell,
but whether it was true or not was another story.

And her, purse,
YES, her purse.
The objects that would emerge from the folds of her purse!
Paper clips and pens, rubber bands,
bobby pins, safety pins, clothes pins,
mints, candy, tissue,
handkerchief
aspirin
notepad
bandaids.

Edith lived in the past as much as the present,
communing with ancestors through old photos and stories.
A researcher to her very bones.
Genealogy took her into conversations with distant relatives all over the country
as she gathered tales and deeds,
births and deaths.

And she excelled at that, the way she excelled at making music, and excelled at painting.

But for all the talents and joys she had, her greatest gift was welcoming the stranger.
All were welcome at her table, and many came.
As a child this was part of what made her house so fun -
the cousins and musicians
the parade of family and friends
the hubbub.
It could be very exciting.

And I knew, all through me, that grandma loved me.
She loved me.
She loved me.

With a twinkle in her eye, she loved me.

Catching Up: Adventures with Wolves

You're going to find out that I love Groupon deals on things that involve nature, science, and getting out of the house with the kiddos. This past year we joined the California Wolf Center (thanks for the half off, G!) which is in the mountains around here. Last May, we got out there to see these amazing creatures.

I cannot recommend this highly enough. It's not so much the wolves that we got to see, although that was totally awesome, but the education on wolves that blew my mind.

Mexican gray wolf

I have always loved wolves but never really thought about their near extinction in the U.S. The Center is part of a breeding and rehoming effort that has actually turned around the ecology of Yellowstone Park, one of its initial projects.

Mexican gray wolf

The kiddos didn't totally get the educational part of it, but they did like running around outside of the enclosures.

The Yahoos with Bella laughing her head off.

And they really enjoyed picnicking at a park in Julian.

The Yahoos with Bella trying to stir things up.

And they really, really liked stopping for hot chocolate at the end of the adventure.

A rare silent moment as The Yahoos gulp their chocolate.

And they pretty much did not like taking another photo after they had their treat. 

The Yahoos, totally over this whole taking pictures thing.