One for the Birds

Elias was lucky enough to accompany my mom on a bird watching trip out on Sauvie Island this morning.  They were able to go to a plethora of different spotting sites and look through scopes to see an amazing number of birds, primarily raptors.  Elias came home and was giddy to announce his new found professional aspiration: ornithologist. He started his own "ornithologist's notebook" with a list of some of the birds they were lucky enough to see this morning.  I offer it here in all its cute kindergarten, phonetically-spelled glory:

(eagle, falcon, turkey vulture)

(owl, seagull, pigeon, finch)

(heron, hawk, sand hill crane, egret, woodpecker)

If I can get my act together, I might be able to actually give you another taste of my Sunday love story tomorrow . . .but seriously, the above is a result of that love story. What could be better than that?

It's Just Like Magic

My regular readers might remember this post I wrote about a month ago in which I waxed gibbous (is that not seriously the coolest phrase?) about my friend Shanon's paintings and my almost lifelong yearning for one.

You'll imagine, then, my pleasant surprise when I celebrated my birthday two weeks ago and unwrapped this treasure:

She now hangs above the piano, alone in the center the of the wall, my favorite part of the living room.

What have I learned from this? Blogs are magic. Mention something you want on this sacred space, and all your dreams come true.

Have I mentioned lately how much I need one of these?

Human teeth.

Okay, folks. Spill it. Why does the tooth in the below post creep everyone out so much? I hadn't anticipated that reaction. Though I suppose an unidentified human tooth in your child's mouth isn't so pleasant when you put it that way . . .maybe not such a good idea for a children's book? :)

In Which Young Ones Write

1. There is a wonderful new post up at The Little Clover that you should definitely check out.

2. Tuesday morning I get to give a presentation to 8 to 10 year-olds about being an author. This scares me so much more than similar presentations to high school and college aged groups has.

3. Last week, Clementine was playing in the sand table at Elias' school when we dropped Elias off. After a few minutes, it was obvious she had something in her mouth; assuming it was one of the many rocks and shells and plastic animal figures that pepper the sand table, I made her give it to me. Turned out to be a tooth. Wasn't her tooth, though. End result? Next week, I'll be helping Elias' kindergarten class create a group book about "The Mystery of the Lost Tooth."

Bernie Madoff and the Grim Reaper

I left my monthly appointment at the pain management clinic last Wednesday afternoon and climbed into our old dented mini-van feeling slightly defeated. The spinal procedures had not worked (a lot of pain for nothing) and I am left with few options except more medication at this point. I guess it's fair to say I might have been a bit grumpy, then, when I turned on the radio to listen to Talk of the Nation on my drive home.

The show that day was called "What It's Like to Lost Everything." The central focus was the whole Bernie Madoff debacle, and then they branched out to people who had "lost everything" in other ways: losing a job, natural disasters, fires. It was heartbreaking to hear people tell their stories about waking up one day to learn that everything they owned was no more.

But the first guest on the show, successful writer of books about dieting and food Geenen Roth, said something that had me worked up enough that here I am, more than a week later, blogging about it (it's in the first three minutes of the show if you want to take a listen). Like far too many others, Roth had to answer a phone call wherein she was informed that her entire savings of 30 years had disappeared and Bernie Madoff, the man in whom she had trusted her fortune, was in handcuffs. Roth had written a piece for salon.com entitled "Fleeced by Madoff" wherein she outlines her sense of loss and acceptance; the article landed her the guest spot on Talk of the Nation.

The host asked her to comment on the fact that there is a contingent of the population who is dismissive of the loss of wealth for those in the upper tax brackets. I'm glad he brought it up, because I think it's important to note that even though many of Madoff's victims were mulit-millionaires, the loss they face is still life-altering, and psychologically it can do a lot of damage. Just because I don't have enough to invest in hedge funds or, let's face it, any stocks whatsoever, doesn't mean that I don't feel sympathy for those who did have that ability and then lost their fortunes. While Ms. Roth seemed to agree with me on this point, her rationale was a doozy.

First, she made a point of saying that although she might have come to a point of great wealth and success, she wasn't always there. She claims to have been homeless for a time in her life. Homeless, you say? Yes. And by homeless she means--and she says this--she didn't have enough money for her own place, so she worked as a live-in nanny.

So live-in nannies are homeless? Try living under a bridge in January for a few nights, Ms. Roth, an then tell me if you were homeless as a nanny.

Here comes the kicker. She said, and I quote, "All of us are going through some kind of loss." She mentions that those without the amount of wealth she lost in Madoff's scheme who had money in other stocks have lost a third of their wealth because of the decline of the market. Good point. Next: "Those who didn't have enough money to put anything in anything are also experiencing losses everyday, the way we all do: the loss of someone you love, the sudden death of someone you love, an illness. . . "

Um, did she just compare the loss of her millions to the loss of a human being? Yes. Yes, she did. Apparently I should understand how it feels to lose millions, even though I have never had a penny to invest, because my father died from brain cancer when he was only 56. Pretty much the same thing.

A question, Ms. Roth: do you ever have those dreams? You know, the ones where your lost money suddenly appears at a bus terminal or in your doorway and your heart catches for an instant with hope that it was inexplicably risen from the dead? Do you wake from those dreams flooded with grief because all you want to do is hold your money's hand one more time and make sure it knew how much you loved it?

Do you ever look at a picture of you and your money together in better days, when it was still with you, and break into a spasm of tears the way I did last night when I saw this one:

I didn't think so.

Inaugural Poem 2009: Praise Song for the Day

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others’ eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words, Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; Words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side; I know there’s something better down the road.”

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”

Others by "first do no harm," or "take no more than you need."

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

--Elizabeth Alexander

*note: A commemorative chapbook of this poem will be released in February 2009 by Graywolf Press.

Pioneer Cemetery--MLK Day of Service

We had a great time sprucing up the cemetery today, despite the freezing cold wind. The kids were great sports about it and Elias especially really got into scrubbing each and every dirty headstone he saw with a bucket of soapy water and a brush. (Sometimes it does pay off to have a child with OCD, after all!)
Chloe was a primo branch-gatherer. We've had some very stormy days, and there were free range branches covering a good portion of the graves.

Clementine did enjoy dragging some smaller branches into piles, but for the most part she wanted to re-arrange flowers and trinkets on graves while we urged her not to, and discover little kitty statues under some of the more ornate headstones:
We were luck enough to have Nana helping.

And here's a final shot of Daddy Gibbous hefting bags of debris:
So what did you all decide to do to celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day? And can you believe that as of this posting, there are less than twelve hours left of the Bush era?

Can I hear a Woot-Woot?

That's what I'm talking about.

A Sunday Love Story (part 4): Breakups, Makeups, and Mug Shots

Are you up to speed in our little tale of love and intrigue? If not, you might want to stop here first:

Part 1: Red Ruffles and Rat Tails
Part 2: Band Plumes and Compact Discs
Part 3: Corsages and Ladybugs

So I was Molly Ringwald, though a slightly less gorgeous and non-red-headed version, with my perfect teenage happy ending. The boy of my dreams, though not quite Jon Cusak, was officially my boyfriend. We held hands in the halls, oblivious to the rest of the world. During breaks and at lunch, he would stand behind me, wrap his arms around my waist, and rest his chin on the top of my head. We had our first kiss after a church dance. My introduction into the world of high school was every bit as good as it had looked in the books and the movies.

Except when it wasn't.

It only took a few months for reality to set in. In the weeks leading up to my fifteenth birthday, I remember feeling a vague sense of restlessness as the newness wore off. It bothered me that he still pegged his jeans, and it bothered him that I wore a torn denim jacket with political buttons on it every day. We started to bicker about small things.

Chris and I were about to face the problem that would stare us in the eyes our entire courtship: we had met too young, but as much as we wanted to, there was no stopping the attraction that drew us together. We spent every waking minute together--or as much time as our parents allowed us. Because of our Mormon culture, we weren't officially allowed to date, so being together required chaperons. We spent time after school with friends who had to put up with us not being able to keep our hands off each other and being generally uninterested in what the larger group was doing. Our attraction to each other grew intense very quickly, and it didn't take long before it started to scare the hell out of me. There was another boy who was mildly pursuing me during this time, and I found myself attracted to him, too. This was high school, after all. I should date as many boys as I could, right?

I remember that I broke things off with Chris, but I had to ask him the details earlier tonight. He was folding laundry at the foot of our bed while he told me that I'd given him a note (a note!) as he was on his way to P.E. (Yes, the proverbial note in gym class--we were that cliched.)

"No way. I wouldn't have broken up with you in a note. That's cruel."

Chris set a pair of perfectly folded socks on the bed. "You did. It said, 'I think we should just be friends.'"

I stared at him, unbelieving. "What kind of person does that?"

"A fourteen year old child, I guess."

Yes. Right. That does explain things a bit, doesn't it?

But our young romance wasn't all cliched. When we agreed to remain friends, we meant it. We spent every bit as much time together, if not more, than we had before we broke up. I couldn't stand the thought of not being with him, but I wanted to be able to feel the thrill of this other boy's pursuit at the same time. This was a lesson that neither of us ever quite learned: it is impossible to truly develop a relationship with another person when you still spend 90% of your time with your ex. Within a month, we were officially back together. If you read this paragraph, say, six or seven times, you would have the first four years of our relationship down pat.

We'd been reunited for two weeks when we were invited to the 16th birthday party of one of our dearest friends. The boys were to stay until just before midnight curfew, but the girls were all spending the night at her house. One of the other girls, T., was going through some rough things with her family, and by ten o'clock she decided she couldn't handle being at the party any longer. She wanted to talk, and she wanted to be away from the happy atmosphere. Chris drove the three of us down to George Rogers Park, where we sat in the car overlooking the Willamette River and talked about how insanely unpredictable life was. We cried together. We were sad for T.'s troubles. We didn't think about how late it was because T. and I had the perfect alibi: we were at a slumber party.

It was close to 3:00 in the morning when we pulled up to T.'s house with her overnight bag, and there were police cars in the driveway. Being young and stupid, it hadn't occurred to us that our parents would worry, that our friend's mother would call our mothers to tell them we weren't at the slumber party, that Chris' parents would notice that he wasn't home by curfew. All of our parents had been sitting with the police officers for two hours, worrying themselves sick over where we were and whether we were okay.

We were in a whole heap of trouble.

I seem to recall being grounded for two weeks. Chris lost the freedom of his basement bedroom and had to move into the room across from his parents upstairs. I don't know what happened to T. But I remember the sense of outrage we all felt. We were doing nothing wrong! We were helping a friend! We were contemplating the shitty nature of life, philosophising in only the way the young can! If we were to be treated like felons, we should have at least been really up to no good, making out like crazy overlooking that river.

That night, after the police left and my parents escorted me home, my dad pulled Chris' dad aside. "Do you mind if I put the fear of God into your son?" As it turned out, my future father-in-law didn't mind at all.

The scene: Sunday morning, the hallway outside the chapel where Chris and I first laid eyes on each other a year before. After the service, my father (6'2", two hundred pounds) pulled Chris aside by the elbow. "I trusted you with my daughter," he said, "and you broke my trust." Chris was shaking and tried to apologize but my father stopped him. "Do you understand the danger you put her in? Why should I let her get in the car with you ever again?" The sense of guilt Chris felt was overwhelming, almost as overwhelming as the sense of anger I felt when he told me what my father had done. I thought it was sexist and belittling; was I not responsible for my own actions? Why should Chris hold the greater share of the blame just because he was the guy?

I didn't speak to my dad for two weeks, and it was a good two years before Chris felt completely comfortable around him again. Of course, by the time we were old enough to consider marriage, I was fairly certain that if I didn't marry Chris, my dad would probably disown me.

And we were never late for curfew again.

Happy birthday Michelle Obama

In honor of the woman in the post below (okay, and me!), and in the tradition of the hobbits of The Shire, I give you a birthday gift:

Great Moments in Presidential Speeches (credits to Dave Letterman)

Day of Service

If you haven't already seen it, this quick little video of Michelle Obama is worth a watch (fun cocktail party fact: Michelle and I will both be celebrating birthdays tomorrow!):



I love this idea, and I hope serving in one's community on MLK Day becomes as much a tradition in this country as a turkey on Thanksgiving or an egg hunt on Easter. The website she mentions, www.usaservice.org, is an amazing resource with a plethora of great idea for finding places and organizations in need of volunteers.

But I'm still stumped. Chris and I have been thinking about this for some time, and we haven't found the perfect thing to do with our kids yet (yes, I realize time's running out a bit on us). Part of what makes this such an important event is that it gets people out in their own communities to serve. I was surprised that not a single thing was listed in our town on usaservice.org. I want to make this as local as possible. I've though about taking rakes and cleaning supplies to the cemetery where my father was buried, or sitting down as a family and tying some quilts for foster children. Anyone have other great ideas for us? What are you doing to celebrate and serve?