We came across this chubby moth while moving a pot around today.  It did not escape poking and proding.

We got in the spirit of Memorial Day by hitting the attic stairs at Gramps’ and diving head first into unearthing the family china. Charlie’s attic is awash in Victorian relics clothed in dust soaked cardboard boxes. When my grandmother moved into a retirement home all extraneous china was packed in wobbly boxes and nestled in 1980’s news paper. When my own mother died all the treasures that lived in custom cabinets carefully designed for them were packed willy nilly by a stranger and housed in boxes marked “Kitchen” for 10 years. Now that the kids are grown up and moving back in with toddlers, cousins are getting married, having babies and nesting double-time it seemed like the right moment to let the blood bath begin.

Apparently my brother Cary has a thing for china. The story goes that as a tiny child he saw some china plates and let it be known that he liked them. Ever since then this particular set has been referred to as “Cary’s China”. If this is not embarrassing enough, his wife Judy when ever given the chance tells the story of how picky Cary was about china in their wedding registry. Apparently he claimed he, “didn’t care”, but when dragged to the store became rather controlling about china selection. Apparently Judy went online later and removed all his choices from their registry . It must be true love because they are still married.

It was amazing to see Cary so galvanized about the whole thing. He swooped in like a lots-of-$-an-hour management consultant and organized the whole engagement. Not only did he bark orders and keep the junior associates scurrying, he had this incredible China Matrix in his head. He made executive matching decisions expertly, while at the same time defining new sets and subsets on the fly. He knew which box to put things in, and which box was full. We were all so cowed by his flawless execution that we pretty much praised him when he admitted that he broke a plate. Even gods make mistakes, that’s what makes them so endearing.

Everyone knows that all good swat teams have a talker. You know, the one who seems innocent but is tasked with distracting the client to delight while the rest of the team is busy squeezing the knowledge base from their underlings. That is my stepmother Mattie. According to her she had the most insane post Victorian mother anyone could have. One who hoarded furnishings, and house wares then let them rot in her barn under the pretense of “antique shop”. Mattie was an endless stream of, “Oh, look – at – that” and “My mother had one just like that” and “You know what they used to use these for”. It was very comforting to have our own on-site treasure expert along. It leant an air of professionalism to the whole operation. Let’s face it all of us want to be an Antiques Road Show expert but Mattie had the gumption to live out that dream!

Well all good romps into the past must end, and we have to embrace the present. I had forgotten that it was my dad’s birthday. He turned 68 as we unearthed our family place ware legacy. After dinner we had cake. The marshmallows were hand inscribed with chocolate penned in toothpick. Apparently, at one point in the afternoon the inscription process had to be hurriedly covered by a New York Times across the lap, as my sweet father blundered by in the innocent search for tea, or some other old guy meandering. Fortunately Cary reads body language, and like any good managing principal adeptly returned the client’s focus to the work at hand, and the attic stairs. Upon cake candles and reflection, there is not that much of the china that I really want. Did it lay there swaddled in anticipation all those years, only to wake up and be set free?

Tennessee Valley Sunday May 25th ~ Meow ~ Kitties like to eat grass ~~ ~ yum

This is what we harvested on Saturday. The cauliflower went into a casserole with the following yummy ingredients:

Red Onion

Garlic

Purple Cabbage

Purple Cauliflower

Mushrooms

Penne

Sunflower Seeds

Gruyere

Mozzarella

Nancy’s Cottage Cheese

Italian White Wine

Dill

I just came back from a late run. It’s too good not to write…get this. On the way out Mango and I stumbled on a punctured king snake, it’s tiny intestines plopping out of a red ring. It was writhing in agony it’s mouth opening wide like screaming, it’s head twisting in unnatural ways. We watched for a bit, but it seemed like to profound a moment for us to be witnessing. I cursed the vehicle that wounded such a sensual creature. We ran along a little further and found them. Three bikers pulled over talking about their “mistresses”. I ignored them when they tried to say hello. Like the Lorax would say, “my dander was up”. I kept running trying not to get sad when I had to stop dead in my tracks at the Van Sciver’s gate. There in the hollow were two adult wild turkeys and 6 babies. I’ve never seen a brood of them in my life, much less that close! About 8 feet from the turkeys by the gate post stood a 4 pt fuzzy plump buck. I’ll be dammed if he wasn’t taking a curious closer look at those birds. Everyone was shocked. We all just stood there for a few moments and then scattered. I kept running pondering how things happen in threes, and was the buck the three? Or was there another three…when passing the back of the shack I almost ran into a coyote. It was about to come down the trail on the little cliff there so we were eye to eye. It’s eyes were the darkest midnight blue almost black, not something I’ve ever noticed in coyotes before. It darted away before I could look closer all I got was that startled glance. On the way home we found that the king snake had made it off the road. I was still kind of groaning, so I moved it to the hillock by the tree so as not to get run over again “en state”.

Saturday the 17th was the last day of Saturday 2s class. I had a little card full of wonderful photos, but like all good things they got corrupted. So I am left with my memories. A perfect day at Sandborn Park. The hike to end all hikes, for this year at least. You climbed up the 8ft redwood stump like it was nothing, guided by Teacher Leslie moonlighting as wood sprite. I watched as you and daddy held hands with our class and did a sort of ring around the fairy circle, the morning sun backlighting your blonde duck tails. Finally Mother Earth met us at the picnic spot with her spindle, wool and a crunchy rendition of Peter Rabbit that involved lots of lovely audience participation. At the end she asked all the children to line up in front of her and she would tell them what they are in charge of taking care of on the earth for the coming year. You stayed behind and listened from my lap. The first girl in line was asked if she liked the beach. She said, “yes”. So she was appointed to take care of the waves. You turned to me and said in a very solemn voice that you were going to take care of the starfish. You stood patiently in line, with the most serious look on your face. When it was your turn, Mother Earth tried to pawn the care giving of kitties on you. You were shy but stood your ground. After several attempts by Mother Earth to read your lips you finally looked up and firmly said, “STARFISH”. I was so proud of you. You had the inner resolve to ask a complete stranger to grant you the most obtuse of care taking jobs. Seth Whitman you are now the official Starfish Steward.

OK. It is extremely embarrassing when this is growing in your dad’s back yard! Dad!!! How many times have I told you to cover that century sprout with something…anything! A blimp hangar would do, I’m sure we’ve got one around here somewhere…

Oh…but those hooded nodes.

Goes well with pink.

We woke on Saturday to the cool of the suburbs. Next we piled in the wagon in search of a coffee shop ~ true Saturday morning style. On the way we sniffed every due kissed rose. On the return trip we even hit a garage sale…nice and early. We scored a $6 Thomas the Train set and a Hawaiian shirt. I asked Seth to pose for me with his loot, but instead he ran straight off in the other direction.

Enter step cousins: A little duet with Rosa.

Classic Rosie

Classic Mooi

It was one big wadin’ pool kinda’ day. There were friends, cousins, individually wrapped crackers from Japan and tons o’ fun. Really it was all too much. After watching Frances spray himself in the face point blank with the hose nozzle for what seemed like the hundredth time I was ready for a nap. Here’s to lounging with family basking in the endless entertainment that is offspring.

Dear Seth,

The funny thing about you is that even when life around you changes, you remain adamantly the same. Every day I expect you to change. Yet you remain the exact same personality that introduced himself in the earliest weeks after conception. Your steadfast will and self actualized demeanor resound in every house, field and train set you inhabit. You are a charming and faithful sidekick to friends who adore you. You are a careful listener to a father whose wisdom you cherish. You are a stable haven for a mommy who needs a “little bunny”. You are a hard worker in the gardens of grandparents.

It seems so trite in this age of information to dote on the “child development” of it all. I know your cognition, imagination, and skill is evolving day to day, nap to nap. Sometimes I catch your growth in my butterfly net, other times it steam rolls me. I am resigned to stand on the road, net in hand, hoping that you offer up a glimpse of the sacred. The oneness of play, the unselfconscious conversation, the autonomy of defiance. I teeter there on the fence, trying not to look for it, who am I kidding – live for it! At the same time trying desperately not to miss it. Perhaps this is the in balance that is parenting. Or perhaps as you stated the other day after waking up and immediately assuming “Downward Dog” on the bed, “Mommy I am using my hands to stabilize myself” – the stabilizer.

What would I be doing with my life if it were not for you? I would be pursuing even more adult activities fraught with results, met expectations and long meeting schedules. Instead you have dogmatically gone about infusing my life with green moments, massive exploration, and more book time than is healthy for anyone. All of this is new to me, and risky because I have to adapt to your instant. It is I who is doing the changing. Together we have rebuilt me over and over again. We tooled me to be the mommy that you needed as an infant, as a baby, as a toddler, as a terrible two, and as Mr. Three. Each re-org has left me steeped in growth, clamoring for more. I should be interminably exhausted from all of this. Instead I feel refreshed, because through all of this change you remain you. The core of Seth is always there, sometimes pushing a different truck, and sometimes with a more articulate sentence structure, but always Seth.

Thanks for a great year of Saturday 2’s!

Love, Mommy

Seth often picks up the phone, and upon hearing a female voice asks, “Grandma Belle”? Grandma Belle has been dead for 10 years. However, this does not seem to be a problem for him. Seth includes her in lists, builds Lego houses for her and never ceases to ask questions about her. In order to field the questions, and perhaps recall some recipes along the way I have decided to make a book about Grandma Belle. I thought for starters I would make a paper version for bedtime perusal. However, right now all I have is a keyboard and a funny memory.

In August of 1993 we drove across the country from California to Rhode Island. One of our intended stops was Montebello the hill top home of the Jefferson Clan (all shades of them). We were neigh on the first people to pull into the Montebello parking lot that morning. Mom really liked to experience a place with out the crowds. We took the tour, and yes even I admit it was a lovely house with interesting proportions. However, I was relieved when the tour let out in the garden and we were free to meander. The garden did not look exactly as Thomas had envisioned it. It was a drought year, the grass was dry and the perennials were a bit spindly. Our attention was caught by the the broad leaves of an ancient fig tree growing up from one of the kitchen garden terraces. We went down to investigate, but found a sign and a chain forbidding entrance to visitors. Well that was not going to stop Belle. She hopped one leg then the other over the chain, walked up to the fig tree and started eating. This act of defiance from my own mother was down right inspiring. Needless to say, I hopped the chain and started munching too. When we heard voices we slipped into the shade of the tree. Sure enough other visitors were drawn to the tree and started sampling figs. We all laughed when they spotted us skulking those historical leaves and secretly savoring those 18th century figs.

Addendum – May 13, 2008

ZZ from work pointed out that the name of the Jefferson ranch is actually Monticello not Montebello. ZZ remembered this from his junior high social studies class. I wrote him the following email to congratulate him on his historical prowess, “Ya a la the bumper sticker ~ your junior high social studies beat up my ivy league art history”

Dear Seth,

Yesterday was a sad morning.  But it didn’t stop you from producing a masterpiece.  You even went to the paint cabinet and selected big boy craft paint.  None of this washing out business, you were determined to set your feelings permanently on paper.  Your subject remains unknown, but the recipeint of the painting was announced with complete resolution, “this is for Anne”.  Anne ~ beloved baby sitter and favorite neighborhood mommy.

I am busy whipping up breakfast without love – always a bad idea.  Potatoes and dandelion greens.  A little night shade with my liver cleanse.  And some paprika.  A little fire for my atonement.

Meanwhile you are very busy mixing.  Such a deep green water dish.  It reminded me of water in a dream, or a magic potion.  It felt like you were stirring in solidarity and I flipped potatoes and greens and reflected on our empty morning.

Ah the camera, “just one photo” you say.  I oblige because you are such a breath of fresh air.  Only you can catch this look in my eye.  Only you can capture mommy gazing in pure admiration.  It’s almost unnerving.  I don’t see myself this way, I don’t look at myself in a mirror and receive this look of content.  Keep taking my photo! Love + Mommy