it sounds like you should grill it and have it with rice pilaf, some sort of midwestern whitefish.
it’s not.
crunch’s stripahs, back then, in the day, were striped bass, so these tiny blooms would not truly bear his nickname.
it’s these “invasive” flowers that are decorating our yard these days, paving the way for the dandy dandelions. they are actually quite beautiful. “puschkinia” in plural, which sounds like an americanized-botched-spelling plural of a mini version of those ridiculously yummy sweet-filled polish paczki donuts. everything sounds like something.
for me, peering for spring in the front yard, they are a sure sign of hope. early arrivers these early stardrift, they signal that maybe-just-maybe the snow is over and maybe-just-maybe warm sun will take over where cold march days left off. they are harbingers of open windows and adirondack chair time and basil sharing space with cherry tomato plants and flipflops. so much anticipation in tiny flowers.
these days are unseasonably warm. we are not sure why the jet stream seems to be blessing us with this gift but we are elated to walk in degrees that are in the sixties and even seventies. spring in wisconsin has never – in my experience – been a season of warmth. i remember too many soccer and baseball seasons huddled under blankets tucked into my bagchair. but this one is different.
next week is supposed to be back in the fifties. but even those temperatures are happy for us. maybe-just-maybe i’ll get a glimpse of forsythia one of these days, a sure sign of spring on growing-up long island.
in the late afternoon, the sun streams in the west windows and lights up the sitting room. it is the coziest of cozy rooms with the comfiest old slipcovered couch, smushy fur throw pillows, sherpa blanket. good lamps, happy lights and no television make it the perfect place to share time with a book. we love sitting there.
the sitting room had history as a cozy room. many years ago it was the only room in the house with a tv. when my children were little-little they watched mr. rogers and thomas-the-tank-engine and sesame street in there. my son lined up matchbox cars on the rug and my daughter sang and danced with barney and the gang. the little mermaid and the lion king and sing-along songs were on regular line-up. a small room, it was a hub of activity for small babies and toddlers. we danced for hours to the grapevine song and woke up the household on saturday mornings to brother band’s bagpipes.
the giant tv went to the curb and someone picked it up with a wagon and toted it away. the camelback rolled-arm loveseat, much worse for wear, took its own turn at the curb and the old couch from the living room donned a slipcover and – with great effort by my son and me – made its way into the cattycorner.
then, there was a period of time it was a little bit ignored. more of a pass-through than a room, it begged attention, some of our time.
and now, the rickety old farm table is next to the couch and holds an antique clock that magically stopped at 11:11, some dried flowers and charlie – the heart-shaped philodendron who clearly loves being the star of the room. beautiful paintings and an old screen door. and the sunlight greets us every afternoon and each time we walk from the hall into the bedroom or vice-versa.
it is easy to sink down into the couch and close one’s eyes. we know this from experience. it’s a really good nap couch. i wonder how it would have been for two toddlers on the move. i suspect it would have been a good addition back then. funny how cozy takes over somewhere along the way.
loveseats are good – and quite lovely. but couches – the kind you can sink down into – read a book together on opposite ends leaning back on fuzzy overstuffs, under a blanket – are better. looking back i can see that now. smushy > camelback. this would have been a better couch back then. hindsight. sigh.
lounging on the sofa the other day i closed my eyes, but not in sleep. for a moment, i could hear the tiny voices of my children – decades ago – as they played on the rug and sang along, “it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”, “under the sea”, “i love you. you love me”, “colors of the wind”. wistful moments. time flies by. our home holds us, ever-watchful.
i looked at the changes of the sitting room. a serene spot in the house, a place to think back and re-relish earlier times. times of barbies and baby dolls, stacks of books, matchbox cars and balls of every sport. growing children, dogs, a cat. it was a hub back then. it’s a different kind of hub now. and i’m eternally grateful for both.
we have been – knock wood – quite lucky lately – knock wood – during a period of time that tornado watches have proliferated weather apps across the country, including here. the words “tornado watch” make me uneasy. ok, truth be told, i find them slightly terrifying. i am not one to take these watches and warnings lightly. i plan ahead…important papers, phone and laptop cords, keys, wallets, purse, dogga leash…all in a safe place. and then i listen – intently – to the wind.
i didn’t use to have this kind of reaction to storms, but since the flat-line-windstorm of 2011, i have turned into a wuss. yes, wuss. period. somewhere around 750-800 trees were felled in that storm in our neighborhood, pulling roots from the ground, heaving sidewalks, falling wherever they fell. all in a matter of minutes. it was scary. and yet, i know it was not the destruction that a tornado can leave behind.
we have read each article about the tornadoes across the country, our hearts sinking for the loss of life and home and property. the weather is more extreme than i ever remember it. and it is not getting better. climate change is here – not a amorphous thing of the future. and, with the ocean temperatures rising, i suspect that this will not ease up. these storms are here to stay.
and so i wonder the best things we can do to pay attention to this good earth, the best practices, things to avoid. we are all in this together – despite the warring of peoples on big fronts and little. there will be nothing to celebrate – or fight over – should we ignore these signs. we’ve been relatively lucky as a world so far – knock wood.
we grocery shop at woodman’s. on purpose. charlie says that – even years ago when he shopped there – he figured out that every third time his shopping was essentially free (as compared to other stores). i would tend to agree. they do have the best prices.
but we don’t buy everything there. we do, however, buy many plant-based and gluten-free foods there and all our non-perishables there and all our paper goods there and all our pet supplies there and all our drinks there and our wine there and and and….
even so, i checked out the other day – with nary a gargantuan list anywhere around – and noted the total: $196. 68. whattheheck??!!! this was not a big shop!!! it wasn’t like we had groceries for now till kingdom-come, as my sweet momma used to say. goodness!
every single thing we purchased had gone up. 20 cents, 50 cents, a dollar, two dollars. every single thing. in each case this was as much as a 20-30% hike in price. it was disturbing. this has happened each time we have shopped. i mean, black beans used to be 99 cents. they are now $1.19. garbanzo beans used to be 99 cents. they are now $1.29. that’s a thirty percent increase! the olive oil increase was off the charts and the gluten free pasta $2.39 from $1.99. in even bigger news, the laundry detergent isn’t even available in the larger – more economical – container.
we have noticed.
and we are worried. if things keep escalating at this rate, we will be out-priced at the grocery store. it is shocking.
we got our gas/electric bill the other day. we used significantly less natural gas and electric, yet our bill went up $45. monthly! that’s not even to mention healthcare, internet and cable, cellphones, insurance, vehicle expenses, real estate taxes…
we are really really good at stretching…meals, leftovers, budgets. we are really good at wearing layers and keeping the thermostat down, way down. but there comes a point when we look at each other and say, “what if?”
we aren’t really “double” people. but we are let’s-have-a-glass-of-wine people. and, at the end of the day, these days, it sometimes seems like a lovely time to escape a tiny bit and sip a glass of wine.
our happy-hour-snack-time started during covid. isolated from others, we hung lots of white twinkling happy lights, surrounded ourselves in our sunroom with succulents and growing-things-every-one-of-which-we-named, planted ourselves at an old vintage table in front of the window, turned on a little music, and sipped wine. dogdog at our feet, we’d munch on chips and hummus or crackers and aged cheddar. the end-of-day ritual stuck and now even dogdog anticipates our sit-down, watching us for cues and ready to be with us wherever the happy hour takes us: sunroom, patio, deck, kitchen or in littlebabyscion on the hottest of days.
for the longest time, and then longer still, we sipped our wine out of jelly jars. smuckers simply fruit jars, to be specific. i even considered contacting smuckers – at the time with a base in ripon, wisconsin – to purchase enough jelly jars for everyone at our wedding to get one for their wine toast. because people are generally not as thready as i am, i figured they could move on from wine-glass-use and repurpose the jars for small bundles of wildflowers or as tealight candle holders out in the wind. momentarily, i thought smuckers might want to get in on sponsoring a couple of artists dedicated to their jelly jars.
make it a double, our son’s bar mat read. celebrating his new condo – without the benefit of all his glass and kitchenware moved in – we poured bubbly into plastic cups and toasted. in the midst of the city, we walked to pick up thai food and a bottle of wine. though we are not make-it-a-double people in the way of cocktails, we are definitely make-it-a-double in the way of making memories and i, like most moms i suppose, wrap myself in cherished doubles-triples-innumerable memories with my children.
her card read, “age and glasses of wine should never be counted.” i laughed as i opened it. time is flying by. it’s short.
we no longer use jelly jars for our wine. we decided, instead, to use the good wine glasses. instead of worrying whether the riedels or the family passed-down-crystal might break, we use them, enjoying the wine in them and the remembrance of them as treasured gifts. a double.
now i think that the apothic people should sponsor us.
quiet guitar, a little flute, an oboe line weaving in and out.
i know – without a doubt – that they are trying to keep me calm while on hold. having just gotten off the phone with a billing department, it is not a far reach for me to imagine one falling fast asleep during this interminable period of time. the age of technology and customer service have taken a turn to the worse if they are programming music specifically to slow down our rapidly-beating hearts and blood pressure when we call.
from a personal standpoint, were i to be accessing this music – this particular track – through a mindful practice app or a guided imagery site, it would be pretty helpful. but the use of background music on loop – a composer’s nightmare – to soothe my billingbrain is trying.
and then there was this moment i had on hold one day when i called an insurance company. paperwork strewn in front of me, pencil and notebook at the ready, a list of questions in my head, i was ready to take them on. i was instantly put on hold the moment i selected “speak to a representative”.
the music started.
mine.
piano, strings, a cello line weaving in and out…
it did take my mind off the insurance debacle.
instead, i just kept wondering if they were paying royalties.
the fine line between snow and water. it curved along the shore, made more obvious by the mudline separating the two. the edge between frozen and watery marsh appeared like a crayon thickly outlining the coloring book image, colored in with either whitish snow or blueish water.
standing on the shore – away from the edge – it’s pretty easy to see it…the place where, if you step, you will fall in. undoubtedly, there is also an area close to that place – but not as obvious – where you are also likely to fall in, where your boots will get all wet and perhaps you might lose your balance. you will be – maybe – covered in snow and mud, but you will be laughing there, because you will not have been in danger and it is not likely that you will be hurt. cold and wet, yes. but in real danger – no.
in a time of reorganization of our life together, we are trying to step closer to the edges…the ones we can see and the ones we can’t see. there are places and things that are oh-so-familiar to us, comfortable smushy places into which we sink, easy places to live in. there are places that push the envelope, places that push back and question and, even in that less-smushy-but-necessary zone, we steadily take steps. then there are those places that are a little frightening, a little less solid, a crossing-over place. these are the places we are finding we need to go now. we carry with us all the tools of our lives – education, experience, work, learnings along the way. as artists, as people working in the world, we toss our work over the open water so that it might float around and land – sometimes inside the edge, sometimes out past the buoy and the ropes that designate safe swimming.
and so, in the edge-approach, we glance down and see that our boots are getting wet. the leather – quite worn and no longer waterproof – is taking on marshwater. our socks are getting damp. but, we remind ourselves, we are not in danger. we are simply at the edge. there is much room for growth here, with our feet all wet. there is time to breathe and slow down our fast-beating hearts as we keep going. there is no worry about having to swim or tread water, for it is shallow. and the shallow water offers plenty of nutrients to feed us, teach us, keep us going. the edge looks scary and unfamiliar, risky, but we can see the horizon and the sky meets the land and we can recognize that.
every time we release an album, hang a painting, publish our words, stand in public with our art, openly protest unfairness – whatever it might be – we stand with feet on either side of the edge. we vulnerable ourselves to the world and we are in open water for the moments in which we allow ourselves to consider how our work – our standing there – is being received. but the foot that remains on solid ground – the one on the other side of the edge – holds us to terra firma. and, each time, i suspect, we have found it to be less scary to take the leap, not knowing.
i suppose right now should be no different.
“life is a travelling to the edge of knowledge, then a leap taken.” (d. h. lawrence)
as we were walking into costco the other day, there was a man briskly walking out. he was balancing a a box of items in his right hand. but in his left was a bundle of flowers. i don’t think he was aware of my brief stare, for outside costco it is windier than most places and we were scurrying to get inside.
but i did stare.
it wasn’t because of the man – i wouldn’t be able to identify him in any way. it was because of the bundle of cellophane-wrapped flowers in his hand. he made me think of my sweet poppo who would purchase grocery store flowers for my momma to put in the center of their coffeesitting table or maybe on the side table in their foyer. my momma loved those flowers. inexpensive, and often on sale – she was ever budget-mindful – but she really loved them.
in these days of a bit more challenge we have taken to a new practice. it’s: pretend-i’m-giving-this-to-you. next to a display of valentine cards sweet-topped in love language with $5.99 printed on the back, we held one out to the other – “pretend i’m giving this to you.” we stopped by the floral cooler and he pointed to a bundle of red roses (with buds and petals actually attached, i might mention) and said, “pretend i’m giving these to you.” the “pretend-i-got-you-this” is far-reaching and much more satisfying than you might imagine.
for it is an intention of love and, in our lighter-weighted and budget-minded world, not stuff.
as we drove home from hiking we contemplated what we might do for the rest of the saturday. it was wide open and we had vowed to hold it as our own. we needed this day on the trail, this time outside, this time together sans angsts. we ran ideas in littlebabyscion.
revisiting frugality is not unfamiliar for us. it is, in fact, much more familiar than extravagance. and so, it is much easier for us to be prudent and thrifty when considering the ‘what’s next’ category. off-trail, our legs were tired from hiking in snow and, though refreshed, we were a little weary from being out in the windy cold.
we considered our options. what to do with the rest of saturday. it was getting later.
back home, we made a little charcuterie board, poured a little wine. we decided to stay home – with our happy dogga. we talked about our trail covered in snow, we read a book together, we played one of favorite cds. kind of a gentle end to our day.
i scrolled through my photo stream then reached out to d with my phone, pulling up one the photographs i’ve taken on the trail we love – this photo of stunning blooms of wildflowers in the winter forest – and said, “pretend i’m giving these to you.”
i’ve noticed lately that my eyes look a lot like my poppo’s.
we were sitting on the couch, talking. there’s much to ponder, to talk over, to talk about.
“anything’s possible,” he repeated.
even before lipton suggested it for american heart month*, my sweet momma and i had #liptonteatalks. at the end of the day – after i’d get home from school – we’d sit on the couch in front of the big bay window, a hot mug of lipton tea in our hands, chips ahoy cookies on a plate – and we’d talk. #teatalks. i would give a lot for another #liptonteatalk with my mom. there was so much to talk about back then too. the world was at my fingertips – out there – waiting for me to decide where to go, what to do, how to move into it. it feels so long ago.
there’s been a lot of life since those #liptonteatalks with my momma. i have been fortunate to have had #teatalks and #coffeetalks and #winetalks with dear people, connections that value real talktalk, hard questions as well as the simple ones, introspective musings as well as anecdotal tale-telling.
we’ve been together ten years now – our connection is really relatively fresh. we still have stories to tell each other – things we never thought about before – things we need to talk through with a loving ear – things we’ve wondered about the days to come, quietly in some space in our hearts and minds. we tell stories to each other on the couch, on trails, in the car on long drives, under the quilts at the end of a long day. we take turns being the bottom rock of the cairn; we take turns being the kite in the wind, ribbons loosely – but safely – wrapped to the other’s wrist, grounded in flight.
in one of my favorite scenes of one of our favorite holiday movies – a season for miracles – the little girl is on a clue-filled treasure hunt. she ends up at the library, finding the treasure – the book the secret garden. tucked inside the book is the last note: “anything is possible.” it’s a heartwarming moment, a foreshadowing of one of the last lines of the movie, narrated at the end by the same little girl. “anything’s possible,” she reminds us.
sometimes it takes an other in our lives to remind us of this – to embrace the possibilities. sometimes with a cup of tea in our hands. always with big heart.
*****
*”a tea talk is a great time to have a meaningful conversation about your heart health, plan healthy meals for the week, pause and take time to meditate with a cup of tea, map out your weekly schedule to ensure you are including physical activity and even schedule doctor’s appointments to get your heart health checked.”… “time for women to prioritize their heart health by engaging with family, friends, and doctors in open conversations about their needs, concerns, and goals, helping them embrace healthy habits, especially those that are good for their heart.” (Lipton)
reverse threading 