A Very Significant Sadness 

My heart aches at the news that my darling cousin, Matt, has passed away.  

Such a dear and precious person.  

Matt, I will miss your full and ready smile, your strong wiry hugs, your signature voice and sound and your never-ending patience and love for the rest of us. We, who could never really understand what it meant to live in perpetual silence.  

I think of the words to "Starry, Starry Night" about Vincent Van Gogh and they achingly remind me of you:

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night
You took your life, as lovers often do
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one 

As beautiful as you

Rest peacefully sweet cousin-- until we meet again. XO

Cake Balls!

(let's brag about it)

Every few years you see something pretty remarkable on the internet and you think, "You know, I bet I could do that." Today was one of those times.  I pulled the kids off the TV and showed them what Bakerella had dared to dream up and on total impulse I declared, "Kids, should we make some too?!"  Obviously, it was a bold and unanimous, "Yes!" The following is proof of just how successful we were.  It was a proud day--definitely worth a brag.. and a post. 

Find the River

I hope I remember this morning.  Last night was a late night at the Haunted Forest for Nick and Nicholas, so I opted out of yoga to let Nick sleep in.  Nicholas did not enjoy the same indulgence since he promised if we let him work school nights he'd get up for seminary.  And he did.  He woke up pleasantly, ate his eggs, and went to the car a few minutes early to plug in his ipod.  When I got in, he was playing something loud. "Mom, when I heard this song play last night in the front circle I leveled like four groups; I was so pumped.  I was on stilts and my knee was burning but it was so fun."

The song played and I smiled at the memories it would later bring him.  Probably images of a pulsing crowd, frightened faces, party lights flickering in the distance and the smell of smoke and funnel cake riding the current of the forest air. A few minutes later Jack got into the car and the first song gave way to the second.  They were surprisingly chatty, not a common occurrence for red-eyed teenagers driving to seminary in the cold, black morning.  As we passed Aunt Jills, the second song became the third and I thought, "Oh, REM, I love them. I bet Nicholas doesn't even know this song, since he got most of his music from Nick's computer."  As if he'd read my mind, Nicholas told Jack that this was his favorite REM song.  Ironically, I said, "What's the name of it again?" "Find the River," he told me.  "It has the best words of them all."  It has the best words of them all? He's listening.  Me, my thoughts are flower strewn, ocean storm, bayberry moon. I have got to leave to find my way... I sought to really listen until we turned the last corner and he pulled the plug on the tunes.  "See ya, Mom."

It was no surprise that my eyes teared as I watched the two boys walk shoulder to shoulder up the dark pathway to the church.  They've about grown up.  They're thinking their own thoughts and discovering which songs touch their hearts and minds.  My first, fleeting impulse was to call Jessica and say, "You won't believe it, but I'm looking at it right now. Those little boys of yours are going to grow old." I sat there in my robe and thought a minute, then plugged in my phone and selected the song that speaks to my boy.  My heart warmed as I thought of him, and why he loves the words.  I imagine it has a lot to do with the river and his excitement for paddling, but does it go any deeper?  Could he possibly feel the same poignant nostalgia that the song wells up in me?  For it's compelling metaphor of a boy who is just setting out on life.  Does he recognize the beautiful, poetic images of home and the natural world set against the pull of the world.  Maybe. But maybe not yet.  For now, perhaps, the promise of a winding river emptying into the open sea is enough for a kid of fifteen. Either way, I am compelled to sit on my couch in the first light of morning and write a few words to a boy I love.  This is your song now, Nicholas.  Pick up here and chase the ride. The river empties to the tide. All of this is coming your way.

Hey now, little speedyhead,
The read on the speedmeter says
You have to go to task in the city
Where people drown and people serve.
Don't be shy. Your just deserve
Is only just light years to go.

Me, my thoughts are flower strewn
Ocean storm, bayberry moon.
I have got to leave to find my way.
Watch the road and memorize
This life that pass before my eyes.
Nothing is going my way.

The ocean is the river's goal,
A need to leave the water knows
We're closer now than light years to go.

I have got to find the river,
Bergamot and vetiver
Run through my head and fall away.
Leave the road and memorize
This life that pass before my eyes.
Nothing is going my way.

There's no one left to take the lead,
But I tell you and you can see
We're closer now than light years to go.
Pick up here and chase the ride.
The river empties to the tide.
Fall into the ocean.

The river to the ocean goes,
Afortune for the undertow.
None of this is going my way.
There is nothing left to throw
Of Ginger, lemon, indigo,
Coriander stem and rose of hay.
Strength and courage overrides
The privileged and weary eyes
Of river poet search naivete.
Pick up here and chase the ride.
The river empties to the tide.
All of this is coming your way.

Close Call

Unfortunately, and in the words of Robert Frost, I am writing this post "ages and ages hence" so I will definitely lose the fresh emotion of this story but it is certainly worth documenting.  Of all the crazy things Nick's done in his life, I don't think anyone would have thought his closest run-in with death would come from a dirty piece of plastic from the Potomac River getting lodged in his ankle. But, this was the case.  In July, 2012, Anjie's sister, Tia, was in town with her family so Nick agreed to head up a canoe trip for a bunch of us.  Nothing out of the ordinary but before we even got started, Nick lost his footing on the muddy edge of the river and slid from the bank into the water and punctured his heel on something.  In true Nick form, it hurt, but he never mentioned it.  By that night, however, the wound was dark red and really hurting.  He was heading out on a high adventure kayaking trip in a few days so he figured he better get some antibiotics.  That he did and the next day--no change but the pain was intense.  He went back to the doctor and they gave him something else and he headed to West Virginia in more pain than I had ever seen him in, but with the faith the medicine would kick in and all would be fine.

According to him that was probably the worst week of his life.  It was all he could do to make it through the pain during the day but by night he would have to completely drop out of commission and elevate it just to bear it at all.  Nights were awful and on the third night he thought he'd need to go to the hospital but their location was so remote it was impossible.  He said one of the most sincere prayers of his life and by some miracle he made it through the next few days.  When he got home he went back to the doctor and his infection was out of control.  They ended up giving him a different round of antibiotics and we hoped for the best.  He muddled through the next week but would come home from work looking awful--terrible coloring, hot then cold, clammy and sweaty, his ankle ready and infected looking--nothing had changed.  All he would want was a green smoothie.  He'd say, "it's like my body is craving it--like I have to have it."    We had been drinking them daily for a few months now.  A week went by and on Saturday we were supposed to go to a Calleva event but Nick was feeling too awful.  That night we called the doctor on call and when he returned the call he was really short and rude.  Nick gave him a rundown of the past two weeks, the river infection, all the different meds,  and all the current symptoms he was having--that he'd made little improvement and was actually feeling worse.  The doctor had the nerve to tell him to take a Benadryl and then hung up.  I was so undone by the conversation and what a jerk he had been that I said I couldn't go to bed without saying a prayer together.  Following that prayer,  I had a dagger stab my heart so sharply and clearly with dread that I knew instantly he had to go to the hospital.  When we got there and the nurse took a look at him, she put him ahead of everyone and said he was in big time danger as his body was going septic.  He then spent the next days in the hospital with all kinds of specialists and on an IV drip.

 We ended up calling our good friend from church, Ruth, who is an infectious disease doctor and she immediately took him under her wing.  In a nutshell this resulted in saving his life.  She truly believed that something was stuck in his foot even though it didn't come up on the X-ray.  I am so grateful for her.  She said she literally couldn't believe the healthy state Nick must have been in, because there was no explanation for the week preceding admission into the hospital.  She said his immune system did wonders at keeping the sepsis at bay because by the time he was admitted he was in terrible shape and the infection in his foot was out of control.  To this day, both Nick and I think the smoothies are to thank.  He would not have been able to survive that week had his body not been so healthy and ready to fight.

Long story short.. he had surgery and sure enough Ruth was right-- there was a weird piece of plastic inside his foot just keeping everything festering.  He wasn't out of the dark yet, his body was a wreck.  He stayed on the IV drip for a whole month after the surgery.  He had to carry that bag around day and night and he felt lousy.  He seriously never complained and did his best to set an amazing example for the kids.  It was a really scary thing to go through.  I'm just so grateful for receiving the warning that I did that night and for amazing doctors and friends like Ruth who go above and beyond to help people. Also, for the fighter that I married.  He's one amazingly tough man and I love him.

As Quick as a Wink

I don't remember where "as quick as a wink" came from... maybe my mom or Grandma Katie, but I say it to my kids whenever I want something done quickly.  I've also come to associate the phrase with how fast certain things we love dash by-- vacations, summer break, Christmas, college, childhood, time with loved ones.  And we all know that once we hit about 35, and our kids go to school, time stealthily tilts itself downward and moves with relentless speed.  One day I'll print this blog and maybe in some future day my children will read this post, and if they do they will know that if I had my wish, time would stop here. And just to make things warm and fun, we'll be in St. John when it grinds to a halt.

Just the other day Jill and I were discussing my usual complaint of time moving too quickly.  Nicholas is in high school--only four more years, Natalie has grown up over the winter, Mitchell has lost his baby teeth, and Camille is buying wedges.  I hate it.  "But Jennifer, think about it. Would you really have wanted to stay young and live with Mom and Dad forever and never had all your fun experiences and had kids and all that?"  Wheels turning.. digging deep.  "Yes."  And I meant it.  I meant it knowing it was a strange fiction.  No, I guess I wouldn't want to be a kid forever, or stay in college forever or have babies forever, but at the time I would have chosen to stay put, yes I would.  I realize the bottom line for me is:  I have loved every stage of my life.  I owe that last reality to GOD.  So, thank You. So much.  I have the clearest memory of being in about 8th grade, in junior high and thinking, "I could die right now completely satisfied because my life has been so happy and complete." And I meant it.  I've thought that all along the way.  I could die satisfied and blessed, though I don't want to.

Whenever I hear or read the quote, "grow old along with me the best is yet to be" I just get defensive and the internal dialogue starts buzzing.  Oh really, the best is yet to be?  So the idea is that the best, the very best of life lies in what comes next; the prize is found in the future? So, where does it end?  Death?  True happiness lies in being dead?  I don't know.  Maybe so.  Who am I to say?  I just have an issue with that concept since I find it very hard to believe that life just gets better and better. I like to think of it as even.  In my experience the happiness cards have been evenly dealt. I hope my future hand is as good as the past, though I'm looking forward and I don't like what I see. Carnage, really.  That being said, I'm sure I'll enjoy all my wrinkly old lady, people dying, kid-less life experiences to the max. I mean, so far so good.

Anyway, back to the future and my kids reading this post.  Know this:  your mother loves you. She loved you as infants and adores you even still.  And though she pines for the past, she savors the present because these days will pass, as surely as the sun goes down.

In Death, I Saw You

Some lessons in life come easily, almost instinctively, while some slowly and steadily emerge like the drip, drip, dripping that eventually fills the tub.  Others yet, come rushing in like a flood that drenches and drowns you as you gasp to draw one last sustaining breath.  And it was within that unyielding deluge that I learned I loved my dog.

We got her as a puppy when my mother in law realized she couldn't care for a sick husband and a new puppy.  To me, she was cute but her shiny new tag had "peer pressure" written all over it.  "Mom, we can keep her, right?!" Yeah. Right. But she can't come in the house.  We decided to name her "Lucky" if,  and that's only if, Chief's cancer results were good news.  Right from the start, we jinxed her. Like they say, "One man's luck is another dog's demise."

The kids adored Lucky and I must have also somewhere deep in my heart.  I just made sure I never really showed it.  I was the first to yell from upstairs, "Get the dog out, she'll pee!" whenever I heard the scrambling of her nails slipping on the hardwood floors.  She slept in Nick's office and spent many of her days there during the winter.  Sometimes I'd feel guilty when she'd timidly peek her head in the dining room door to join the family, daring to gingerly place one paw over the forbidden threshold only to hear, "Luuucckkkyyy..." in that "oh no you don't" tone only a mother can perfect. The kids thought I was heartless but they soon accepted that having a outdoor dog was better than no dog at all.

Some mornings Nick worked from home and would rub Lucky with his feet as she lay under his desk. She lived for those moments and appeared content in her simple life. Though I didn't pet her much, I knew we had "lucked" out with such a cute dog and was grateful she was constant and kind and would never dream of lashing out at one of the children.  She was a tender-heart and I often wondered if she instinctively mourned the puppies she never bore as she wandered the yard with stuffed "babies" in her mouth-- whining, whining for what was amiss. 

Over the years Lucky grew on me and I liked her quirky ways, though not enough to change my own.  I chuckled at her obsession with real food and took secret pleasure in letting her finish the leftover eggs from the kids plates. I wondered at the way she'd sneak in the house when someone left the door open, creep upstairs, steal a sock and bolt!  Always the same story:  steal a sock or shoe and bury it in the yard. Every time we pulled in the driveway, midnight or not, Lucky would run like a bullet around the outside of the house--so happy to see us.  That mad dash around the perimeter must have been her way of proving it.

It was ten days before Christmas when Mitchell and Natalie dashed up the stairs, "Mom, Lucky's sick!"  I told them she had probably eaten something bad.  "But she's breathing weird, and barely getting up." The last thing I wanted to do was go to the vet with so much to do.  I assured them she'd get better in a few days and they gave me the usual, "you don't care about Lucky" look. As I passed in and out of the office that day, I looked at her under Nick's desk and gave her an encouraging word or two.  She did seem sick but I figured it'd pass.  But by the next evening the kids found me again. "Mom, you and Dad have to take Lucky to the vet, she's really sick!  She's breathing worse.  She won't eat anything. She won't lick my hand."  Feeling a little guilty that I hadn't even noticed, I went down to the office and yelled for Nick.  Her breathing was shallow, rapid and she only barely lifted her head to greet us.  An electric pain seized my heart as I realized something was terribly wrong.

The vet at the 24 hour clinic was young and fresh out of school.  Once admitted, he softly carried Lucky away on her pad and didn't come back for a very long time.  When he finally returned he looked pained and hesitant to speak but said, "I don't have a lot of experience but I think it's bad. I think you should go to your regular vet in the morning." He walked us to the car and Nick carefully laid Lucky in the back.  Before leaving, the doctor leaned in and circled his arms around our dog, put his cheek against her face and whispered, "Good-bye sweet girl."  His tenderness crushed me.  His compassion, so authentically given, made me call into question my own.  I panicked like I was missing something I might be too late to find.

It was nearly midnight when we pulled into the driveway.  "Do you think she'll die in the night?" I asked Nick with fear in my voice.  He didn't know but decided to sleep with her in the living room by the fire and keep her warm.  "Go wake Natalie, she should be with her," he said. Over the past four years of having Lucky, she had really emerged as Natalie's dog.  The other kids would take this personally, but truly, Natalie loved her best.  I warmed as my darling girl nestled right alongside her pup and tried quietly and gently to get her to lick her hand or drink some water.  Nothing.  Just the rapid breathing and the pure expression in her eyes.  I knelt down close to her, unable to hold back my sobs.  I rubbed her head softly and held her face in my hands, I looked steadily into her eyes and into her very soul.  "I'm so sorry, " I cried.  "I love you and I'd do anything for you.  I know that now."  Her eyes stared back and conveyed an expression shared only by the innocent, who depend so completely on our compassion and I knew she loved me too.  How did I not see you?  I marveled, in the early hours of morning. You've been here all along.  Waiting, for me to see you. 

The next morning I awoke with a thud to the heart as I remembered our dog, lying by the fire.  I tentatively tiptoed down the stairs, afraid of what I'd find.  I found Lucky, still lying in the same position, her breathing rapid and shallow with Natalie there beside her. She was alive.  "Guess what, Mom.  In the night something woke me up and it was Lucky licking my hand, over and over and over.  It was so sweet." 

An hour later we pulled into Peachtree Veterinary Clinic. Nick carried his girl inside, wrapped in a blanket; we were relieved they brought us straight back.  As she lay on the table, I held her paw and stroked her head as her eyes went back and forth from me to Nick.  When Chet came in, his concern was visible as he managed to get Lucky to her feet.  He gently felt her stomach, took note of her breathing and slowly helped her back down.  We knew now where this was heading.  The slight burn of hope we felt earlier that morning, was now extinguished by the slow shake of his head and his heartfelt, "I'm so sorry."

Nick carried her to the floor and laid her on a pile of blankets we had brought from home.  Together we shared our disbelief, sadness and shock that our dog was dying and that she was so young.  We crouched beside her and the tears fell; we stroked her back, her ears; we rubbed her paws.  I held her close and waited for the nurses to come in.

Lucky always had the most expressive eyes; they were her most endearing feature.  And in her last moments she met my gaze comprehending my pain, and a knowing look passed between us. I'm okay, she radiated, You'll be okay.  Her breathing remained fast, labored and steady as the needle went in. Then a breath, and another, her eyes locked with mine, and just like that, her light was out.

I could hear the children wail through the car windows when they saw our puppy draped over Nicks arm, warm and lifeless like the soft throw on our couch. With tears dropping into her fur, Nick curled her into a nest of blankets--her nose touching her tail. We all sobbed the long way home.

Standing in his office later that night, Nick said, "What I dread, is the day I don't expect to see her in here; that means I've forgotten." I thought for a moment and knew for me, forgetting would be impossible.  Not until her eyes drew closed, did mine at last rise open.

Real Time

It's 11:38 and I'm writing in real time. Having spent the last four hours recapping, fudging, faking dates and furrowing my brow in search of memory, I can say I am finally cutting it close to current. Of course you can never really do justice to a year you failed to record, but I'm giving it a fair enough effort with plans to resurrect my blog from the floor of the virtual wasteland it's been dozing on.

I told Nick I needed a weekend or I'd never get control of it. I made mental reservations to leave town, destination unknown, then I decided to make it easy on myself and send him out of town with his kids. They are sleeping in real time twenty minutes away, and I am here rewriting history. It's eight minutes shy of midnight.. and I'm fat and full on fifteen fake blog posts. Here's to holding up my end of the bargain.

Not So Merry

But's it's lookin' up!

Come Full Circle

Long ago I remember Grandma Miller telling me the story about when she woke up in the morning to find her wedding ring missing from her finger. Try as she might, she could never find it. She knew it had been on her finger the night before and after searching and searching and searching she figured she must have swallowed it, "cause I didn't really like it; the diamond was just so small" she told me. I remember when she finally got the diamond she dreamed of, maybe 50 years later, and it looked just like mine, a pretty solitaire on a thin gold band. I was happy for her and it made me like my own ring even more since we shared this in common. But a woman is a fickle thing, and over the years I grew tired of my ring thinking that it was ordinary and boring and just the same as my mother's and grandmother's after all. So two years ago, feeling rather entitled, I bought myself a new set and tossed the real ones in the jewelry box alongside the JC Penney junk. Every now and then when I'd rummage through for a bracelet, I'd think, "I really ought to put those somewhere safe." The way that I casually discarded them makes me quite sad now that I think about it. Like the time Dad couldn't bear to leave the broken-down Vega in North-side Vegas. He swore that car looked heartbroken as he abandoned her there in the ghetto where she didn't belong, so he went back for her that night. I only wish I had the sensitivity of my father.

So tonight, as I lay sleepless in bed, a drifting thought triggered an alarming stab to my heart. "I don't remember seeing my wedding rings when I organized my jewelry." Immediately, I rose in a panic and sifted through my perfectly ordered drawer and up into the attic stash, and sure enough, they're gone. I've let Camille and her cousins rifle through my treasures countless times to add accessories to their dress-ups, and it never really occurred to me to keep the rings out of their reach. The image of my diamond slipping from a five year olds bouncing fingers and falling to their final resting place beneath the tramp, weighs heavy on my heart like the mud they are likely buried under. I am sad. Deep down sad and filled with regret. In the morning I will wake unencumbered, until I feel the pang of remembrance that something I loved has been swallowed up.

To School!

To Homeschool!

We are meeting three days a week in Nellie. We've painted, put up maps, bought desks and filled our pencils cups. It's a most charming locale for a homespun little school.