Category Archives: living

Brief Reflections on this Frigid Winter Day

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My nose is cold. So are my feet. I’m wearing two pairs of socks, but I’m foolishly sitting by a sliding glass door and it’s two degrees out with a wind chill of minus seven. I suppose I ought to move, but if I do then I’ll see the dishes that need washing and the clothes that need folding. Perhaps I’ll just stay here and be chilly.

After 19 years in the Mid-West, I still can’t get used to the deep freeze months. Even weirder is how it can be 40 degrees one day and high of zero the next – and I don’t mean at night, but in the day. I do like the days when the sun shines, though. Out in Washington, where I grew up, the sun sometimes chooses to hide for days – weeks, even – at a time. This is a depressing truth. By contrast, here in Minnesota we use our sunglasses year-round. We often get lovely sunny days…even if the temperature doesn’t rise above ten…if you’re lucky.

I think that the ability to appreciate frigid temperatures must be inborn.

This bodes well for my children, all Minnesotan in birth and in their choosing to pronounce “aunt” to rhyme with “taunt” rather than “ant”. I am stubbornly sticking with “ant” just because I like to be different.

I also, apparently, am stubbornly sticking with this chilly spot by the giant window to do my writing today, even though there are several warmer places I could move my computer to…places like the kitchen stove, perhaps, or my electric-blanket-warmed bed.

I think this will be a short post.

I think, in fact, that a need a cup of hot tea. Or mittens (which make typing difficult). Or, preferably, a hat and a scarf. Either that or I need to move back to Miami, where I was born.

No. I’m not that desperate.

I guess I’ll stick to the short post idea.

There. I’m done.

Autumn Assignment

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We went out, in the blowing wind, to find six leaves. It was a kindergarten homework assignment. The kind of homework I like. The kind of homework I understand.

We found our quota, quick as a wink. The rest of the trip was trading them out for new ones. Red, yellow, green, brown, pink; speckled, torn, broken, crisp, supple. We looked at whole branches of leaves, saw trees that were almost naked, trees that were still wearing all their clothes.

We saw seed pods, brown and crunchy, and fallen bird’s nests. It was so windy that our hair blew in our faces and so dry that the dirt blew in our eyes.

The cats followed us, enjoying our little excursion, wondering why we felt the need to carry off so many things: the leaves, the forgotten shovel, the last of the tomatoes.

We wrinkled our noses at certain smells, saw that the stream is totally dry, hoped for rain to replenish the lake.

We investigated the sunflowers, saw how the seeds are growing, wondered if we could roast them and salt them and enjoy them all winter. We thought about pumpkins and costumes and apple pie.

We went inside, hungry, thirsty, inspired.

This is the good stuff of life.

The Disheveled Gardener: Act Two

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There’s something about waking up to a frost-killed begonia that makes me feel terribly sad. Even though I knew the cold was coming and was willing to sacrifice said begonia to Jack Frost, I still was sad and surprised to see the level of forlornness evidenced in that withered plant.

My poor, pathetic, frost-bitten begonia.


I covered my tomatoes and my two pretty marigolds, took in my geraniums – even the scraggly two-year old ones – but I chose to leave the begonias and pansies alone. The pansies are still beautiful and unmolested. The begonias are mush.

My pathetic, leggy geraniums. They were still blooming so I saved their lives.


And so begins autumn in Minnesota.

I like autumn. I like that it’s not so bloomin’ hot outside. I like hearing and seeing the combines at work, leaving the fields surrounding my house stubbly, as if their razors were set on “five o’clock shadow” as opposed to “smooth and kissable”. Yes, this is how I think about fields. I am not a farmer, nor a farmer’s wife, nor even the daughter of a farmer.

Possibly somewhere back in Scotland my ancestors farmed…but I can’t even guarantee that.

The aftermath.


Perhaps that is why my thumbs are a rather pale shade of green. I can grow nice cherry tomatoes, for example, but any big tomatoes I plant – every year, without fail – rot on the vine before they’re ripe and dash my hopes of lining my larder with gleaming jars of canned goodness. I keep trying, though. I’m an optimist.

Why, oh why, do my tomatoes do this?


I’m afraid that the sad truth is that, when it comes to gardening, I’m pathetic. I planted some parsley this year, and thyme, too. They both look lovely, even after the frost. But I never used them. Not once. Okay, maybe once. But my point is, I forgot about them. I watered them. But I never cooked with them. What kind of a gardener forgets to use her garden?

A disheveled gardener, that’s who.

My lovely – and unused – parsley.


But, disheveled or not, I enjoy my attempts at gardening. Just don’t come to my house expecting to chow down on a plethora of my own home-grown veggies.

That’s what the Farmer’s Market is for.

My one success!

A Heart-Stopping Warning

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It has been many a long day since I have been so terrified. On Wednesday, not twenty feet away from me, a tornado siren went off for its 1:00 test. It was brutal, horrible, heart-stopping, mind-numbing, deafening, throbbing, and horrendous.

And, yes, necessary.

A real tornado would be worse. I know this to be true. But still, I could not believe the volume. I could not hear anything else, though I shouted at it, bemoaning its terrors. Every thought I had, every breath I took was channeled away from their former paths, forced onto the grinding, glaring, ragged world of SOUND.

At times it intensified, adding still more pressure to my disbelieving heart. I did not know that it was so brutally LOUD; could not accept that this was the way it should be. WHEN WILL IT EVER STOP?

I was reminded that nature is greater than I am.

I imagined words, “This is a test of the emergency broadcast system. This is only a test. Had this been a real emergency, the sound you heard would have been followed by instructions for your safety…” or whatever it is that those television and radio tests used to say.

The noise ended, but my heart still beat too fast, my ears still rang.

It reminds me of the time some army tanks passed me in West Berlin. I was on my way home after school and came through the gate at the base out into the real world when there, in front of me in all their clanking and clanging glory, were three tanks rolling by. I was terrified, partly by the noise, mostly by the knowledge of what these things were capable of. The sheer size and volume and scope of the machines was enough to send me almost into tears.

Yes, I was thankful that they were on my side, ready to protect me and my liberty, but the reminder of what liberty can cost…that was terrifying.

I am thankful, as well, for tornado sirens. For the warning they can bring. For the difference between life and death. For the scientific world that I live in today.

But please, oh please, may I never again be writing away in my car, windows down, without a care in the world, and then faced with the heart-attack noise of their alarms.

Not unless there’s a real tornado, of course. Then, bring them on.

The Great Hair Dilemma

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My hair is falling out, my chin is breaking out, and my mind is freaking out, all over one ginormous decision: to color or not to color?

That’s right: I’m going gray. At 42 years old my temples are threatening to turn me into the Bride of Frankenstein. 

And I am not a Science Fiction fan.  (Well…Star Wars doesn’t count in my book. It’s like Sci Fi for lightweights.)

See, the problem is three-fold.

One: to dye my hair would be to go against everything I’ve always said. I always swore I wouldn’t color my hair. “Just go with it. Don’t hide who you are. Be real.”

Enough of that hippy mumbo-jumbo. I look older than my husband.

Okay, I am older than my husband.

But I look really older than my husband. And that’s just not right.

Two: I don’t like drawing attention to the way I look. Don’t get me wrong: I like attention. It’s one of my fatal flaws. But what I like is attention for the things I do. Not for the way I look. Why? Because I’m insecure about the way I look.

But enough about that. Let’s not draw attention to THAT anymore.

But my fear, see, is that to color my hair will draw attention to me – and that when people see and comment on my hair, they’ll see and think about the fact that I’m not a slim as I ought to be. They’ll see and think about the fact that I don’t like to wear makeup and that the underside of my upper arms jiggle when I wave goodbye.

NOTE TO SELF: Never wave in front of people who don’t love me.

Me…the summer I met my husband. Back when my hair was long and brown and my arms didn’t jiggle.

And, finally, three: I’m lazy and cheap when it comes to my hair. This means that I don’t want to spend a lot of money on dying my hair because I know I’ll have to keep it up which means I’ll have to make appointments (and I don’t like the telephone) and I’ll have to fuss with it and I’ll have to miss writing time to go to said appointments and I’ll have to sit in the hair salon and listen to people gossiping and smell that perm-scented air and…

Okay…admittedly, my fear of hair salons sounds a little outdated. I mean, do people still perm their hair? But still…I don’t like salons. Again, they make people focus on how I look and that stresses me out.

Okay. I guess I’ve carried on long enough so I’ll shut up now. I just wanted to share my anxiety with you all, my support group.

Wait…I just thought of one other thing to be afraid of concerning my hair. I’m afraid, when it comes right down to it, that if I color my hair I’ll hate it and be stuck with it until it grows out and everyone who sees it will say, “Oh, you did something to your hair” they way they say, “Oh, you got a haircut” but they don’t say that they like said haircut…or they say this: “Oh, you cut your hair. It’s SO much better.”

UGH. I thought that insecurities would leave me when I passed puberty.

I thought zits would, too.

Boy, was I wrong.

The First Day of Kindergarten

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It’s too quiet in the car. There’s no little voice singing in the back seat. There are no questions, comments, observations, distracting me as I drive. No requests for Tic Tacs, Kleenex, opinions on made-up tunes. I can put on my music as loudly as I want.

But somehow I don’t want it loud. Somehow none of the stations I pick make me happy.

The very first day. In the rain. A little nervous…but VERY excited!

There is no small body hanging on to the end of my grocery cart. No tiny voice asking me for cupcakes. No suggestions about cheese, soda pop, cereal. No wee girl begging to go see the lobsters in their tank.

But I want to see the lobsters.

The Buddy Box. This is the daytime home of “Buddy”…Boo’s precious blanket. On the first day of school Buddy went to class and stayed in the backpack all day. But on the next two days…into the box she went. She even has a pillow and, of course, a blanket, to make her comfy.

On the second day of school they read The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn and learned about racoons!

There are no new toys on the floor. No clothes being changed five times a day, no snacks, treats, or meals being requested every time I turn around. There is no one to help me fold the clothes. No one to help me carry in the groceries. No one to water the plants with me, stir the pasta with me, read books with me. There is no one to wait by the bathroom door.

Everything is wrong.

On the first day she came home, changed her clothes…and fell asleep on the couch before dinner!

For 13 years I have put in my time, knowing that someday my time would be my own again.

Now that it’s here I think I want it all back.

I did not think that I would cry.

I was wrong.

Meep’s first day of 5th grade. All three of them began on different days…so I took a general “first day” shot with everyone.

The Very Hungry Heron

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So as I was driving home the other afternoon, low and behold, a Great Blue Heron was standing RIGHT BY THE EDGE OF THE WATER with a fish in his beak!

I WAS SO EXCITED!!!

I EVEN HAD MY CAMERA!!

BUT…the car frightened him. And he flew away.

No problem!!! I’ve got a good lense!!!

SO FUN.

He flew away…but not too far.

Preparing for the feast.

Gotta get the proper grip.

Isn’t it cool? Well…not for the fish, I suppose.

It’s a process…

You can still see the buldge…just a little!

A very satisfied tummy.

Yes, There is a Fourth of July in Bangkok.

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You know that elementary school joke: “Is there a Fourth of July in England?” Of course there is! It just isn’t Independence Day for them the way it is for us here in the US of A.

I’ve spent holidays in some unique places. Thanksgiving in Tunisia (let’s just say there was no turkey for dinner), several Christmases in West Berlin, Easter in Paris, and The Fourth of July in Thailand.

Spending your country’s independence day in a different country is bizarre. You feel patriotic and guilty, both at the same time. Kind of like when I traveled to the USSR in high school and all I wanted to do was chew gum…and I hate gum. It was this tenuous connection to the USA – something that made me feel American…as if I needed reminding when all around me was the Cyrillic alphabet, furry hats, and borscht.

When the Fourth of July rolled around in Bangkok the summer of 1989, all of the American ex-patriots were invited to the American Embassy’s front lawn for a down-home American picnic, complete with hamburgers, hotdogs, corn on the cob, and ice cream. There were games, too: three-legged races and tug-of-war. And, at the end of the day, fireworks.

Let’s just say that the American embassy in Thailand doesn’t have a very big fireworks budget.

But, that being said, that afternoon and evening stand out in my mind as one of the most memorable Independence Day celebrations I’ve ever had. Being away from home made home all that much more special.

But I think the best Fourth of Julys were spent on Orcas Island, growing up. Their budget – supplemented by tin donation cans at every island store all summer long – was a million times larger than the Thai embassy’s. Orcas Island had – and still has – the best fireworks I’ve ever seen.

When the sun goes down, round about 10:00 at that latitude, the people of the island – along with a gazillion tourists – line Eastsound Bay and wait patiently for the show to start. Out on tiny Indian Island (only slightly less unpolitically correct than its former name, “Jap Island”) – with fireboats floating at the ready – the pyrotechnics are about to begin.

Now, Orcas Island is an upside-down horse-shoe shape, and Eastsound Bay is at the top of the inner part of the “U”. All around the bay, then, is island and hills – big hills – hills which would be called mountains around here in Minnesota. Indian Island is an itsy-bitsy island just at the head of the bay, which can be reached at low-tide if you’re booted up and keep a wary eye on the rising tide so that you don’t get stranded. It’s the perfect spot for fireworks, as any accidental fire is contained on the island, and you have this amphitheater surrounding it with space for hundreds of viewers, both on land and by sea.

So, picture this: you’ve shimmied across a narrow rock path to get to your favorite place on the beach. In the dark, no less. And now you’re sitting on a promontory, hearing the local YMCA campers singing campfire songs at the top of their lungs (the sound traveling across the water), hearing waves lapping a few feet away, and watching the star-strewn sky for the explosion of fireworks.

There are probably 25 boats out on the bay, sitting quietly at anchor.

Occasionally the sound of laughter or popping of champagne corks comes faintly toward you, but nothing too obnoxious.

Then comes the first burst of color, the BOOM of powder, and the echo of it all ricocheting off the mountains.

Explosion after explosion, reflected on the water, in our eyes, in our hearts.

Now THAT, my friends, is how to spend the Fourth of July.

Happy Birthday, America.

Oh, the irony! 23 years after my summer in Thailand, my husband went to Bangkok for a few days…and took these next shots! Needless to say, the hotel across the river had a way bigger fireworks budget than the US embassy…

You Sank my Battleship!

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Ah, the heady days of summer. When the kids start bickering and you start sweating the moment you walk out the door and the cats suddenly realize that if they just hang out around the birdfeeders their chances of a tasty lunch rise drastically.

Darn cats, anyway.

Boo, summersaulting through her summer.

Finally, this week, activities have slowed down. We’ve driven to camps, listened to bands, and tumbled and tucked our way through gymnastics. More lies ahead, but for a few days at least, we can breathe a little more easily, sleep in a little longer.

The trouble, of course, with less running around, means that there’s more time for boredom. My mom used to tell me that only boring people get bored.

I did not appreciate that.

I think, perhaps, that’s it’s not so much boring people/boring minds, but more the fault of laziness. As an adult, I’m never bored. Not ever, I don’t think. But as a kid – and my kids are the same as I was – I know that I would be too lazy to get up and find something to do so I’d just sit there and whine.

The middle school band, rehearsing their “Star Wars” song. I’m particularly fond of one of the tuba players.

As a mother, having offered idea after idea to fill their time, I am faced with several options. 1) Do the suggested activity with them…this always adds to their willingness to do anything, or 2) Holler, or 3) Put up with the whining, or finally, 4) Get so fed up with them that I banish them from my sight.

There may be other options but by that time I’m usually praying for school to miraculously begin early and all I can think about is how willing God might be to answer my prayer.

Today I chose option 1. I have played Battleship (and won by the skin of my teeth), I have gone “Fishin’”, I have made up stories with story cubes, and I have played with cats in the heat and the humidity until I needed a shower – in other words, in about 5 seconds.

Hmmmm…the shower…always a good hide-out option. Maybe I should play games with my kids more often…

Meep, hard at work.

The Disheveled Gardener: Act One

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I have read before that gardening is good exercise.

I believe it. My aching legs today prove that fact quite nicely.

Yesterday I spent two hours planting my tomatoes, flowers, herbs and amaryllis bulbs.

Yes. You can shake your head and look at the calendar and predict dire things. I can take it. I know I’m a horrible procrastinator and that, due to my lovely plants sitting on the porch for 20 days I caused at least nine marigolds to die and the lovely, squat, stout pansy plants I carefully selected are now leggy, spindly weird-looking things.

This is abundance from a few years back. Who know such beauty could come from a lowly whisky barrel?

Last night, as I was falling asleep, I thought to myself, “They only sat there for a few days…Okay, maybe more than a week…a couple weeks. But NOT three weeks.” I stopped for a moment, considering the multiplication table. “Okay. One day less than three weeks.”

I am not proud to say it.

BUT, all that being said, I really enjoyed donning my gardening gloves, playing in the dirt and admiring the green fruits already hanging from my five tomato plants.

I did not admire the fat grub I found by my chives.

Incidentally, I love plants like chives that come up each spring without me doing a thing. That’s my kind of plant. I was warned – repeatedly – that mint would do that. That it would take over the universe, in fact. I’ve planted three over the past three years and none of them have even taken over six inches of universe. Bother.

But I digress.

So now I get to water, watch, and wait. The three “W’s” of gardening.

I can do that. Waiting works for procrastinators.

There definitly is beauty in growing things…I mean, the very act of it – the verb of it – not the noun…though, of course, there’s beauty there, too. But in the act of growing, a gardener can just sit back…and watch the flowers do their thing. I love that about gardening.

Stay tuned for The Disheveled Gardener: Act Two in days to come!