kstreetjournal | A pony a day keeps the money away —

~o:> Another Day at the Market

Posted on July 13, 2010 by K

Or: My Side of Rachel and the African Kikoy

In the continuing saga of our fascination with the Farmer’s Market, summer finally came to the valley, and we sallied forth to sample the local offerings. Rachel went with us, and we met Cam and L there.

Here you see my nearly life-long friend Katherine the Gorgeous, who is now the Farmer’s Market police. “Hmmm. Do I see you on the list here of subscribed vendors? Oh. Street Musician. Do we give out space numbers for that?”

And when she got through with him, he had to face G, the Universal Guitar Police: “Hmmm. Is this in tune? Can you play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ on it? No? Well, we’ll give you till next week to come up to snuff.”

Mostly, I just followed Chaz and Rachel around, taking pictures of them going wild. Here we are at the booth of our own personal glass blowers and lamp workers. Note that Rachel is wearing a sarong. This is not unusual for her. It would be unusual for me.

Personal Lamp Worker: Noah Coleman

I didn’t mention that while I was following Rachel and Chaz, G was following me. Until I turned around and realized that I had lost him. G does not spend money. Until lightning hits. Which it evidently did in front of this booth. A bunch of African students got together to sell these cloths. And I liked the cloths; I really did – the colors are really nice. I just didn’t understand why G was motivated to buy one. And then Rachel came along. She evidently understood more than G himself did. See how solemnly she hands over her money?

While Chaz and I wandered off to listen to this violin. Oh, this violin. He was playing something classical, but when I said something about fiddle, dropped dead down into a perfect Irish reel. This is where I solemnly left MY money.

But where was Rachel? Back at the ranch, evidently, where the students (rejoicing that we had bought two cloths?) had broken out their instruments – the very “African drums” stuffy adults used to huff about in the sixties. (“That rock music is nothing but african drums!!!”) I took it on faith that this castigation must actually mean something – until a couple of years went by and I realized that – hey, I really LIKE African drums. At which point I folded up the sixties and put them in a drawer (deep in the attic).

What you are seeing in the background is one of the boys trying to explain to Rachel how to wear what she’d just purchased. Suggesting that she maybe try the thing on. Little did he know that American women think wearing a sarong somehow counts as wearing jeans in that you are nicely, safely covered. So you can’t just take the thing off and try on another one in the middle of a city park.

How did it end? With Chaz and I and a couple of extra cloths playing the part of dressing room walls, that’s how. Cheeky girl, that Rachel.

The result.

At yet another African booth. At which I bought something totally charming, which will belong to someone special very soon. If I can pry it out of my grasping little fingers. If you look very closely, and you are the person it is meant for, you’ll see the very thing. Hint: someone pretty darn far away , smack in the middle of the continent.

And then the Native American booth we love.

And then we had to buy some tiny plants from a red-haired, pint-sized herbalist.

After which, we adjourned to share otter pops.

And strudels.

We were chased by wild children.

And staged races for two-year-olds. What? They do it with horses.

Jump ahead two weeks, and Chels is with us.

Rachel, who actually HAS worn other things in the interim.

I was enlisted to take portraits (not so easy in the broad, bright, glaring afternoon light). She has adopted the cause (students wishing to be able to buy food while at University – ah, I remember it well), and now considers herself a walking billboard for them.

More instruction. I actually tried doing this today with our as yet un-used cloth. I should have watched closer.

Actually, I remember now – the first week we hit the fair, these guys were performing on the green – drums and dancing. And I danced like the perfect idiot I am, on the sidewalk, watching them. Middle class American culture is SO STODGY.

So, here they are, drumming up business. No pun intended (wanna buy a bridge?).

Oh! Whoops! What stodgy, middle aged American might THIS be? And if I looked half as good as she does in that Kikoy, I’d have been right up there with her. But then, how would you know it had happened? You aren’t allowed to take self-portraits while you are dancing – OCEA has some regulation about it. Dancing and trotting horses – no cameras allowed.

“We think you are actually African,” one of them has actually said to her. Well, surprise, surprise, perhaps there is more to the American heart than some people realize.

Posted in friends, Fun Stuff, Just life, Rachel, The kids, The outside world | Tagged Africa, Chaz, family, farmer's market, Guitar, kids, otter pops, Rachel, summer | 12 Comments

~o:> A Hopeful Dog

Posted on July 9, 2010 by K

First of all, may I tell you that I rode two horses today? Chaz’ buddy, Chels, visiting from Out East didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to ride, so ride we did, all the afternoon away. Chels and Chaz looked quite handsome on their horses and handled them well. We rode in searing heat (the barn thermometer read over 100 degrees), then in raging winds (as the heavy, lowering clouds blew in from the north west), then under thunder (but no lightning – and during some of which, we hid in the barn), and then in the sun again. I rode my Zi – trotting and cantering and huffing around. Then the colt, who had been sunfishy in the early groundwork, but who settled nicely to the bit and even trotted for a while without grousing about it. Now I am sunburned, and so are the girls, and probably Sophie’s nose. But we are all now fat of soul and satisfied.

I don’t have any pictures of this, because you can’t actually ride a horse and take pictures of yourself while you are doing it. If doing such a thing isn’t against the law, it should be – because pointing a lens at yourself during a trot is WAY more dangerous than texting on the freeway. Or maybe not. But still –

Nothing like starting with a huge digression.

THE REAL POST:

Do you remember this pig?

Well, when I posted about him before, I stupidly forgot to credit Kath Dalmeny and her book World of Knitted Toys — a repository of clever pigs and kangaroos and koala patterns that are not especially Waldorfian. Not that Kath would ever have known I’d forgotten her. But again—still.

And from this book, I made this person also

–though not very well.

Maybe I didn’t remember to credit the designer because, by the time I am finished butchering a pattern, I feel like the result really kind of is just my own responsibility.

But for all my clumsiness with needles, I think he’s a pretty sweet guy.

Having a little roll in the grass, is he? He is only dog #1. I have to start dog #2, from a pattern by the truly lovely Linda, tomorrow.

And I’ll stick this in, too. Because I was going to do a little tutorial about how to make Rhode Island Spinach pie sandwiches a la me. But I didn’t get any further than this one picture, which is simply the sauteing of mushrooms and onions with spinach in olive oil. If you do this, do not use too much oil or you will have to pour some of it off (see the measuring cup below) while it is still spitting and scalding and you could get little pops of pain on your hands. If you are unlucky. All you do to finish this is throw in the meat and some sour creme and some cream cheese, spiked with red wine vinegar and liberally dusted with garlic salt – and then pepper. Mix it up and slap it the heck on some artisan bun. You can melt cheese of some kind over the whole thing (not over the bun) too, if you like.

But I really took the shot because I like the light over my stove, what with the nice gold tumbled marble tiles and the oily, browning mushrooms. Yep. Just really like it.

Posted in friends, Fun Stuff, Horses, Knit Stuff, Making Things, Pics of Made Things, The kids | Tagged Chaz, Chels, Dog, Horses, knitting, storms | 14 Comments

=:Red, White and Blue Pt. 2:=

Posted on July 8, 2010 by K

And then, there’s this year:

I started out with fireworks; I’d noticed these last week as I went whipping by, off on my business. Like the red rocker, they caught me by the eyes and brought me swinging back—explosions of orange, bright against the dark green leaves.

And a flag in the yard, fireworks behind.

Then I came home to this—I never get enough of this window in the river birch.

In the early morning, I was very late to the balloons. I found this one, already gone to ground. Within five minutes, the blower went off, and the vents were open – it collapsed like the wicked witch of the west.

Okay. The piggy bank is just a little much –

Don’t these clouds seem just as balloony as any hot-air balloon?

On the way to the parade—is Chaz excited?

And our Chelse, visiting from the far off East. I have posted no pictures of M and me – we’re too silly.

We don’t sit for the parade anymore. Ginger sold the house, and this year, Cam and L, who had started claiming a new parade territory, are busy with Baby Sister. So we walk the parade. We let it get started, meet it when it gets to the middle of the route, and then walk against the grain. That way, if there’s something cool, we turn around and walk with it, getting our fill. If there are dead spots, we walk through ’em. And this way, we see thousands of friends along the way. Here are a few shots, a sampling of the celebration of the wonderful diversity in the valley –

I don’t even know what this vehicle is. Obviously military, and I think probably belonging to the engineers.

And horses, dragging leather and silver.

We were amazed and fascinated – standing in front of – what is this? A comic store.

I’m not sure what this was supposed to be. The pig is made out of dozens of pink balloons – very clever. But not lookin’ all that secure, followed as it is by those giant scissors. I think it’s supposed to signify a republican pig intending to cut spending – but it just doesn’t scan that way . . .

The Hari Krishnas from Spanish Fork? Or maybe just a Llama club.

And horses. BIG horses.

And dancers from all the islands, floating in the Blue Pacific.

And horses, being vaulted upon.

And bands.

And MORE bands.

And M – home. Did I tell you he was home?

After the parade – the tiny barbecue.

Attended by the woman with one working foot. (Yes, this is why we spent half the day at InstaCare.)

And by tie-dyed children. The first business of the children is the great tiny flag hunt. You will note one very cleverly hidden flag, stuck in the chair behind the Mr. C. Mr. C is too old for the hunt. You can tell by his very cynical and world-worn face.

Here, the tie-dyed father and the cook.

The Great and handsome B, also tie-dyed. I think if you visit Rachel’s blog, I believe you can find out more about these shirts.

The delicious smoke of hot dog and burger.

A hopeful dog.

Family and friends. My brother and his cute wife and pretty grown up son.

The great Flag hunt, older brother helping.

Young, very cool men, chillin’ together – friends, sons, nephews.

MORE flag hunting, assisted by puppy.

But LO! Not a flag, found, but a big, fat snake (who thought he was safe under the old stump).

As it turns out, Chelse really likes snakes.

This is NOT Chaz’ reaction to the snake.

The tree swing, attacked by one of M’s now twenty-one year old high school buddies, died. So what better day to rehang than on the fourth?

Great risks offer great benefits!

And this is the end — the evening coming on – color and cartwheels and families full of hot dogs.

There is more to the story. But no pictures here of that: us at C’s house for a few small fireworks and homemade pie, and Baby Sister nestled in my arms for the first time – for hours and hours.

And that, my dears, was our fourth. We hope that yours was full of joy and family and gratitude. And if there is no 4th celebration where you are, still, you can stop and think about the glory of being alive, of making your own choices, and creating and laughing and giving good things to share your joy. Oh, color and flags, and clouds and the glorious sky. Birds know, and so should we, the propensity of the soul to fly.

Posted in Events, Family, Fun Stuff, Just life, Seasons, The kids | Tagged barbecue, flags, fourth of July, Horses, lilies, parades, snakes | 21 Comments

=: Red, White and Blue :=

Posted on July 7, 2010 by K

Once upon a time, I wrote this post which will tell you much more about me and the 4th of July than you will ever want to know. And I posted pictures of that celebration, much smaller than our wont. And this year, what with homecomings and fevers, and new rooms and old dogs – there’s just been a lot going on, so the celebration was much smaller. But always, I love the 4th and the waving of our clean and fine flag and the festive air of gratitude and freedom. Fireworks? Not so much. I don’t go to the “Stadium of Fire” specifically because I figured its title would eventually become literal – which it nearly did this year. And I’m not much for people who populate the streets for the parade and leave a trail of wrappers and drink bottles behind them when they leave.

I only mention these things because the 4th is a human celebration. Not really a holiday – unless you factor “In God We Trust” into it, along with serious gratitude.

In thinking about all this, and about how I can’t seem to sit out a 4th, even when some of us spend a few hours of it at InstaCare, I decided to show you the old times: back when we had children and our neighbors had children, and the celebration in our yard was huge and exciting and LOTS of people brought food.

Thus, especially for my friends in England and South Africa and perhaps in other places, a look at America’s Independence day on the grass roots level:

In our town, we have dozens of events, almost none of which I even know about. But here, you see The Children’s Parade which happens a few days before the 4th – a safe and wonderful little parade, right down the same street the Big Parade uses – and kids on bikes and in costume and pulling wagons are joined by dressed down high school bands to make a Real Big Deal.

Next comes the Balloon Festival. For three mornings, literally by dawn’s early light, the balloon riders congregate in Fox field and roll out their great, colorful balloons. Above, you see Gin, her first time in uniform, ready to march in her first parade. We always run into neighbors and friends at this thing. And there’s a pancake breakfast in the parking lot of the school district offices.

These pages are straight out of my massive library of photo albums. I’m scanning every page so that I can make Blurb books out of them. But I’ll explain that in another post. The field seems wide and empty when they begin – literally unrolling the miles of fabric, and then unfolding. Then they get out the heated-air blowers and fire up the fans, and the balloons begin to fill.

The body of the balloon, now seeming impossibly big and alive, begins to heave and pucker, gaining dimension, and it’s as if giant colored eggs are slowly growing up out of the ground. The noise of the fans is like thunder, and they always play Enya over the PA system behind it all – which only adds to the surreal quality of the morning.

We walk through a billowing forest of growing color and shape.

There is something so perfect about the filled, but still horizontal, bodies of these things. You can see the scale of it.

Then they begin to right themselves, rising off the turf slowly, gracefully, gigantic poems against the still dawning sky.

And then they break from the ground. I’ve seen insect hatches rise like this from the grass – first one, uncertainly climbing into the air, and then another. Like sky-bourne jelly fish. And then we are looking up at them, and they are no longer giants. Just color, now caught in the sun as it clears the high rims of the mountains.

This is the next year. Gin is now an old hand at Marching Band, and as we drive away to find a place to park for the parade, the balloons hover over the streets behind us, waiting their turn at playing fox and hare.

I don’t have pictures of the parade really. Just this one:

And this one. But we always used to sit right here, in front of Ginger’s historic house on Center. Ginger’s family, up at three in the morning—the legal territory-staking time—put out chairs and blankets and held them against all other comers till we got there. And Robert Redford used to watch the parade from the porch roof next door. It was a pretty sweet deal, and sometimes the parades were really pretty fabulous.

And they were always long, featuring every high school band within twenty miles, floats with beautiful (and mostly modest) girls – waving, waving – horses, open cars boasting politicians (some you’d never even heard of), the head car with the visiting celebrity (Stadium of Fire) as Parade Marshall – dance groups, theater groups, the Shriners, clowns, motor cycle police—dancing with their machines, military vehicles and veterans in uniform, pioneers with wagons, mule trains, Scottish pipe bands, church groups with floats – balloons and poppers and people hawking ice cream and drinks and tiny flags. Two hours of it.

Then we had the Great Friends and Neighbors carnival, complete with games, prizes, face-painting and feats of intellectual strength (name as many presidents and states as you can!). We even did burlap bag races and three legged races and egg carries and water games that didn’t bother anybody in that heat.

And last – but never least – the fireworks. (On this page, you get a bonus – two homeschooling pictures that have nothing to do with the 4th, but everything to do with freedom, liberty and personal responsibility.)

Fireworks always start with sparklers. Then we move on to the driveway and set fire to all kinds of Chinese trouble. But I don’t have pictures of the fountains. They seldom show up as anything but great searing gaps in the evening gloom.

So that’s the way it was for us, back in the days when there were children and energy. If I recover from this, I’ll add this year to the pile tomorrow. We hope that your holiday was full of family, fun, freedom and a certain thoughtfulness – and again, Long May We Wave.

Posted in A little history, Family, friends, Fun Stuff, Memories and Ruminations, The kids | Tagged 4th of July, balloons, Chelsea, family, flags, Horses, parade | 6 Comments

~o:> Ruffling Feathers

Posted on June 30, 2010 by K

When Jeri brought us these three eggs, I suddenly understood where the colors of Americana come from, those thimbleberry, tamped down shades you see in American Folk art. They come from Americuna chickens, evidently. At least, in part. And from Buffs, and — from the white kind.

So here we are, going across the street to visit chickens.

The girls are merrily going after the corn cobs, and Scooter eyes them with some suspicion. G has become very fond of the ladies; he’s taken over the position of temporary chicken wrangler when Jeri is gone.

The white chicken likes being scratched. The others like being left alone.

“Look,” Cam says to Scoot. “A friendly chicken.”

“Right,” says Scoot. “Maybe some other time.”

“No, really,” Cam says. But Scoots remains unconvinced. And I think the lady may be a little hurt by this obvious snub.

“Come here, my little poulet – Huh, huh, huh,” says G in his best French.

But the lady is frozen in indecision, charmed, but retaining some of her native skepticism.

Scooter ponders the experience.

And the very old dog has slept here on the porch in the shade through it all.

Posted in Fun Stuff, The g-kids, The kids, The outside world | Tagged chickens, G, Piper, Scoots | 17 Comments

~o:> After Word

Posted on June 29, 2010 by K

If you’re getting sick of me writing about our endless mishaps, then you’re in good dang company. This is a ripped off letter I sent to Rachel today, and I’m using it as a blog because my brain has run very, very dry:

So last night I was thinking – hey, no irrigation. No appointments. Nothing exciting. I’ll be able to sleep myself out for the first time in a week (if the puppies don’t get to me first). But no. G woke me up (very nicely, but WAY before I was ready) to tell me that my dear L was tossing up her guts at home. After all this Murphy stuff, my s-i-l (who has medical radar) told me there’s this terrible bug going around.

And here is Lorri – about ten minutes from giving birth, sick as a dog. So I had to get up, in case I was needed, which – some fifteen minutes later – I was. The doctor had ordered her to the hospital for tests, so I ran over to stay with Scoots (you know how terrifying it is for me to be alone with very small, charming tyrants) until his other grandmother (the nice one) came. (Scoots and I had been lying on our backs, riding air bikes and singing very loud and were just staring on V8 and butter bread for breakfast.) At which time, I had to run to the hospital to look after Lorri, since Cam had a big meeting with a prospective client.

The deal is, I was beginning to feel pre-tt-y weird myself, as I see I sort of suggested in some paragraph below. I nearly got myself wrecked at least twice, both times in arguments with trucks that would have flattened me. And my lower back had sort of fused into this achy tightness. Cam didn’t care; he was feeling worse. So was Char. So I got there, after overshooting the place by about twelve blocks and having to come back and find it again. And it was on the wrong side of the street. I mean, the right side, which was not what I was expecting. See? See how it is with me?

But I got her taken care of. Which is so easy. She is SO great. And took her home. If the med they gave her to stop the nausea is the same stuff G took at Disney World, she’ll probably sleep for the next week; maybe even through the delivery. Then I ran for GatorAide. Then I had to put the horses in.

|What time do you need the horses brought in? Let me do it!!!

HA. I knew you’d say that. So I hurried and put them in myself so you’d stay put and rest. And know what happened? Three of the blighters (hope that isn’t a bad word) had gotten into the wrong part of the pasture. Mostly they came in when I went out there yelling. But not Hickory – way back in the back corner-ohh, no. I thought he was being good, he spun around on his back foot and started across the pasture to the gate, but in the first three sides, he’d kicked that broad, gold butt of his up in the air with BOTH HEELS AIMED AT ME. I mean, I was thirty feet away, but it’s the thought that counts. So I yelled at him and lumbered after, swinging the rope. I thought he’d head right out the gate (I had evidently left it open while I was trying to set the benighted sprinkler – thanks to my irrigation snafu), but no – he dashed all over that pasture, back and forth, with me, drooping with whatever this is, chasing him, murder in my heart. Finally, he seemed to finally notice the open gate and crashed out through it. The rub is, he is SO BEAUTIFI: when he’s at full flags aloft like this – bouncing like a horse made of air, head up – gorgeous. And bratty through and through.

So into the arena he went, with his fifth “up yours” kick in my direction. And I had had it. Sun or no sun. Aching back or no aching back, I chased that little sucker around the arena till he tried hiding out in one of the back corners. Picture that big body – head up, LOOKING OUT AT THE MOUNTAINS. Like, if he’s not looking at me, I’m NOT THERE. Or he’s invisible.

So I drove him away again (I guess I shouldn’t say “chase” because that gives a whole different feeling than harrying, which is what I was doing – if I spelled it right. Which I probably didn’t. Because my brain hasn’t worked right since about noon yesterday. In the middle of the workout, I was stopping to talk to Cam on the phone and went downstairs – why? – and went back upstairs to finish the work out – which I never did – and completely turned the wrong way at the top of the steps, going to the OLD exercise room, which I never have done since we changed it. How many characters can you jam between parenthesis?)(I was driving him away again, if you’d lost track.) and it went on a little longer till he ended up in the corner again, this time facing me. Head a little lower. Licking a little bit only.

You know, at that point, Monte Roberts has you turn your back, since that’s what the alpha mares do in the wild. Then the chastened pony is supposed to come walking contritely up behind you and put his nose on your shoulder. Which all of them have done at one time or another – all my horses. But not Hickory. He’s never done it. In the end, I’ve always walked up to him, and his capitulation has been to hold still and let me touch him and boss him. But today, I faced him and held out my hand, looking at him sternly. I thought he wasn’t going to move. But he lowered his head a little and walked v-e-r-y slowly to me. At which point, I stroked him, and he put his head all the way down, the way he does when he wants the halter off. But there weren’t, as they say, no halter. So I put the rope around his neck and backed him and turned him and made him move his back end around, all very peacefully. I finally took the rope of and grabbed his forelock and pulled him along till he followed me to the barn, where I fed them all.

So that’s why I missed book club. And now I’m lying here (after a cat-nap I wish had lasted all night), waiting for a thunderstorm to break – even though I know it won’t. They never do when you want them. And if you aren’t resting, I’m going to drag myself over there and breathe on you, and THEN won’t you be sorry.

love, love, love

PS. I AM stealing this letter for my blog.

Posted in Family, Horses, Just life, Just talk, Rachel, whining | Tagged Hickory, Lorri, Rachel, sick | 15 Comments

~o:> Of Best Laid Plans

Posted on June 27, 2010 by K

Yeah. I have to tell this tale, if only because it so parenthood. Murphy, as I expected, joyfully walked right back into his life. YAY. And as I expected, was back in the animation lab less than twenty four hours after he got home. That night, he was feeling just a little warm, he said. So we took his temp.

Uh-huh. 103.6.

He explained that he’d spent time, the week prior, with an companion who had evidently had the flu. So this was probably no big deal, even with the gastric complications. Like two twenty-one year old male persons in a foreign country with no mother/sister/girlfriend in attendance are gonna know flu from typohoid. So we called my doctor’s service for advice. The service explained that none of the doctors on call are willing to talk to anybody who hasn’t already been seen in the office (how helpful). But the operator explained the situation to her supervisor and assured me that they would find a doctor, and he would call. Which never happened.

So we went with the flu thing – Tylenol/ibuprofen, rest, clear liquids. And he felt better. Next day, I took him to the student health center, signed him up for his insurance, got him a (negative) strep test. Fine. Friday, he spent hours at the animation lab. Yesterday, while we went to the Farmer’s Market and came home to clean up the house for tomorrow’s (we were pretty certain) steady stream of visitors, M went right back up to the lab to work. And stayed to watch the US lose the World Cup match. And came home – feeling like he’d probably done too much.

So he napped and took it easy, and everything seemed fine.

This morning, we were all supposed to be in the High Council room by 7:15am while Murphy reported on his mission. Then he had a talk to give in Sacrament Meeting at 9 a.m. (for which he had picked hymns designed to make me weepy up there in front of everybody). All the family on both sides and all the old friends were coming to hear this. It was gonna be great. And then the quiet entertaining of well-wishers, for which food actually was prepared (not by me).

7:15 is early for me. WAY early for Sunday best and make-up. And when I have to wake to a deadline, I simply don’t fall asleep. Not till an hour before I have to get up. So when I rolled out at 6:30 in the morning, and Guy came rushing in, waving a thermometer – stating in awful awake terms that Murphy now had a 102 degree fever and felt like trash – I was a little taken aback.

Not only did he have a headache. His stomach was tight and turgid. And he had a pain, right over his appendix. Then, when he sat up, his spine and neck felt really stiff.

(Here is where the mother, cool and efficient on the outside, is FREAKING FLIPPING OUT on the inside.)

Then the sudden flurry of Facebook announcements and emails and calls to warn people that Stuff Might Not Be Happening Today After-all. We actually were pretty determined that M, if he felt well enough, get to church and give that talk – it’s really awful to jump out of a talk two hours before the meeting – makes a mess for everybody else. But we had family coming in from all up and down the valley, and they needed a head’-up.

I called my doctor’s service again and this time talked to a really NICE doctor (as opposed to the stupid one who never called the other night). And she said – give him a million mg. of analgesic and take him to Insta-care.

So we got the kid up (picture me trying to read the DMBA student insurance handbook from cover to cover in fifteen minutes in my pajamas. The student health center is not open on Sunday. The student urgent care facility is not open on Sunday. You can take your student anywhere else you want, but the insurance won’t pay for it unless you take him to only certain approved and utterly undisclosed facilities. Did I mention that these facilities are undisclosed? Yes. Unless you call a number at which someone is supposed to disclose these locations. A number no one evidently answers on Sunday) – and as I was saying before that short parenthetic note – we got the kid up (it’s 7:30 at this point and church is at 9), threw him in the car and G took him to the insti-care at our local huge regional hospital. Which was closed. The insti-care, I mean, not the hospital. Closed. Not to open until 9 in the morning. Great.

So back home they came. By this time, I was still emailing and calling. And Murphy had cancelled the stream of well-wishers. But he finally determined that he could, in fact, give his talk. Then there was a flurry of emails and calls to tell everybody that.

This is how it worked: we finally brought him into the meeting on a stretcher; then, when it was his turn to speak, sort of lifted the head end of the stretcher . . .

Not really.

I went to church early to explain and get everything straightened out. As I headed out to my car, Rachel called me—sadly saying she was not able to make the meeting because she was on her way to the emergency room with her youngest (who is six – with a broken foot). G brought Murphy to the meeting at the last minute, coming in at the end of the opening hymn (reference the mention above of the weeping conductor*). M sat on the stand through the sac. (far, far away from any other at-risk human), gave his talk and then was instantly carted off again to the insta-care.* Which was now open. Halleluhia.

[*detail – it was Lead Kindly Light, one of my most favorite, poignant hymns – the one I sang with my dear Kira in the mountains, to guitar and harp and fire’s sparking, way back before the cancer took her. One I have sung with the kids all their lives. And I’m doing fine, giving it my heart – till we come to the very last lines as Murphy, who for all I know is dying of dengue fever and appendicitis all at the same time, walks into that chapel for the first time in two years: and in the morn, those angel faces smile—which I have loved long since and lost a while – and there I lost it. Blubbering my face off in front of the whole place. My little voice, booming out, faltered and then quit entirely. And when it was over, I sat down and sobbed into my hands. “Here, Kristen” Pam, my organist said, leaning over her instrument—and handed me a Kleenex.]

[*Further detail: they got half way to insta-care before they remembered they had to have all the insurance paperwork, and had to go back home to get it]

I stayed behind and taught my Sunday School class ( I LOVE my SS class. Love, love,love). Then I flew the coop, ringing G up to get the medical bottom line. No malaria. (breathe, breathe.) No mono. (sigh.) The doctor suspect this to be a “tourista,” a simple matter of his having drunk our native water and eaten our rich native food. But we’re still waiting on the lab work. And I am stolidly expecting the worst. If you expect the worst, just about anything else is going to be GREAT NEWS.

And there you are.

Just another day of rest –

Why is it, I wonder, that almost everything I write ends up sounding like a pitch for It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World III?

Posted in Family, The kids | Tagged family, Murphy, sick, talk | 19 Comments

~o:> Prelude to Two Kisses

Posted on June 25, 2010 by K

Kiss One:

Kiss Two:

And this is how it all came about:

The little family, waiting at the airport. The plane: 35 minutes late.

Chaz and L, happy.

Happy again. This is a better shot of both, but I loved the love in the first image.

Boys, waiting. One with airplane.

Boys, taking a walk. The small one has an airplane bedroom, so they are looking for airplanes, but these days, if you don’t have a ticket, airplanes are hard to find.

Still walking. You can see the balloons belonging to other Welcome Home Elder families.

Finally. Airplane tails. Just visible beyond the International Terminal.

Loved this side glance.

Other than the fact that Scoots is sucking the ends off his fingers, I really like the light here. And G’s face. I really like G’s face.

Girls, staying busy. Ah, technology. Maybe they’re texting each other.

THEN:

The Arrivals board changes. Our flights’ status is now: LANDED.

So we rush to the foot of the escalator. Because you know how quickly planes get into dock and unload.

Cammon is holding his big camera and Ginna. Ginna is actually inside the iPhone, which is streaming our waiting directly to Rhode Island.

Hi, GIN!!!

Woops. People coming. But this surge of people came from D.C., not Atlanta. And the next group, maybe ten minutes later – from Cincinnati. We stand at the foot of that escalator unwaveringly, staring at all the faces as they appear at the top of the moving stair. It finally occurs to me that we might be making some of these people very nervous, scrutinizing them the way we are. Others, unused to SLC airport and its culture, might be wondering if somebody really, really famous is supposed to be getting off a plane somewhere and coming down this escalator. We do have that paparazzi air about us.

Finally, I start taking pictures of random people. We are having a discussion sparked by a random person I did NOT take a picture of, who had just come down the stairs dressed for an ambassador’s ball or something.

“Some people still really dress up to travel,” I remark, thinking about how I don’t.

“I still dress up,” Chaz says smugly. “WAY up.”

As you may recall.

This woman chose casual but classy.

This woman was moving too fast for you to see how really good she looked – jewelry and all.

This kid is more my style.

Then Chaz looks up and starts to giggle. “Brown corduroy cargo shorts, long sleeved blue T-shirt, yellow argyle sweater vest, why????” She turns to me and says wickedly, “I guess some people do still dress up.”

Then this woman came down. You can see that I gave up trying to take the tungsten out of my pictures by this point. Dang auto white balance. I shot her because of the look of absolute delight on her face when she looked down and saw this little boy at the bottom of the steps.

THEN. Suddenly. Our only warning— a family of five wearing Argentine World Cup jerseys:

This, at the top of the escalator.

Take in the following interminable series of shots and tell me what the photographer was feeling:

That glowing smile. The mother, bleary eyed with emotion, not noticing she’s out of focus. SUCH SLOW STAIRS.

You have already seen the shot that comes next:

The mom tossed off the camera to Chaz like a lateral pass and tackled the fresh faced, grinning young man. Then Chaz passed it back and took over the tackling.

This is more or less what the mom looked like after her hug, too. I missed Char’s face over his shoulder because I couldn’t get to the proper side in time. Then the camera jammed up, and I missed the big embrace (cam, m and g, all mushed together) which makes me really, really sad. Because they were beautiful, and I wanted to be able to look at them over and over again over the years. It just wasn’t a “Can you do that again?” thing. So I have only the aftermath of them, and hope I never forget the memory part.

Meeting Scoots, who was only a month or so old when M left.

And that is where the kisses came in.

Talking to Gin, who has been watching this entire time.

Then we jumped into the car and headed out to our favorite Burger place – M’s request – two years’ dream. And there, surprise, surprise—in walks MY DAD and my SISTER, who have driven all the way up from Texas to join us at this very moment. M’s mouth falls open and he looks very blank. Disorienting the already disoriented is childs’ play, really. There are no pictures. We were all too busy eating. And after ALL of that, we head home, where there is supposed to be a surprise waiting:

The little sandwhich shop on Center, right on the way home, will – for $20 – put up a WELCOME HOME sign with your kid’s name on it. So we paid up, and we took him home this way so he’d see that very thing – his name, glowing up there where so many of his older friends had glowed in past years.

We drove down, carefully shaping his attention so he’d see – NOTHING. THE SIGN WAS EMPTY.

But no – not empty. There were the words:

on it. So we pulled over in front of the place, only to find the guy JUST PUTTING THE NAME ON. Like, only a few hours late.

But we couldn’t wait for the rest because Scoots had hit the skids and needed his bed. And it turned out we didn’t need that old sign anyway, because when we came home, we found this –

created by some sneaky local natives.

In detail –

(apologies to Master C. here – the photographer, again, forgot to bring down her ISO and over exposed the heck out of his drawings. So on a later date, I promise to scan and present his work in detail also)

So we went home and took shots of MY side of the fam – my dear and beloved sister on the left, my dignified and brilliant father next to her, my niece, my sister-in-law and my brother (all wonderful adjectives earned even if not listed). Just amazing – Dad and his children – all together in one place at one time. It hardly ever happens. Oh, and Chaz. Oh, OH, and Murphy.

We. are an American Family.

Weird, wonderful and what life is all about. LONG MAY WE WAVE.

And that was pretty much the end of the story of the kisses.

Now we start the rest of the story. I wonder where it will take us.

Posted in Family, Fun Stuff, Just life, The kids | Tagged airplanes, airport, cameras, Chaz, coming home, Dad, family, Gin, Keven, Murphy, natives, Scoots, streaming | 22 Comments

~o:> And

Posted on June 22, 2010 by K

–=0=–

joy

Posted in Epiphanies and Meditations, Journeys, The kids | Tagged Murphy | 20 Comments

~o:>Taking a break

Posted on June 21, 2010 by K

from craziness. Not a long day, but a dirty one. The tractor wouldn’t start, so I puttered around the barn in the heat and the dust while Guy soaked himself in Diesel fuel and put the engine back together. It ain’t much, but it did pass the time.

Murph has been in the air for two and a half hours. My child, shooting along through the sky, somewhere over Brazil. How weird. So I’m going to stick some pictures up here. Maybe the house ones. I’ll do that first. While I’m waiting for flickr to come up, may I tell you how much your comments and notes have meant to me? I might as well be pregnant, the eyes are so prone to leaking these days.

So, the house is pretty much finished. Even the schlepping of things from one set of cabinets/drawers/closets to another. At least, out of sight, out of mind. I’ll put up pictures of the clean rooms later – not because I believe anybody could be that interested, but because I need to see them myself.

Putting up the shingles. This is one thing that Les learned doing our job: he bent over, picked up a handful of dirt, held it up to the sky and said, “I’ll never do shingles AGAIN.”

But it looks so fun.

Replacing the old windows and repairing the old shingles.

See? Gaylen is keeping a pretty darn cheery attitude.

Even while he stands underneath a ladder.

Ladders. Like seventy of them stashed everywhere.

And all of this work – days and days of shingling – so that when you pass by in the street, you’ll see –

– ummm – this.

Looks great, huh? Is there a house in there? Really?

And here he is: Les Allen. My HERO of the day!

Posted in Construction, Just life | Tagged addition, construction, Murphy, shingles, tractor | 19 Comments

Blogroll
Buddies
Cool Places
Lovely lives
The Artist's Heart
January 2025

M T W T F S S

1 2 3 4 5

6 7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19

20 21 22 23 24 25 26

27 28 29 30 31

« Feb
Pages
Meta
Archives
Archives
Looking for this?
Andy Autumn birthday Books Cam Chaz Christmas construction crafts Dad dogs family felt Frazz friends G Gin Guy Hickory horse Horses kids knitting Laura leaves light Lorri love Max Murphy ornaments party pumpkins puppies Rachel Rhode Island Sandy Santa Fe Scooter snow spring summer tractor writing yard

~o:> Another Day at the Market

~o:> A Hopeful Dog

=:Red, White and Blue Pt. 2:=

=: Red, White and Blue :=

~o:> Ruffling Feathers

~o:> After Word

~o:> Of Best Laid Plans

~o:> Prelude to Two Kisses

~o:> And

~o:>Taking a break

Find something:

Recent Comments

on the menu:

Blogroll

Buddies

Cool Places

Lovely lives

The Artist's Heart

Pages

Meta

Archives

Meta

Pages

Recent Posts

Find something:

Recent Comments

on the menu:

Blogroll

Buddies

Cool Places

Lovely lives

The Artist's Heart

Pages

Meta

Archives

Looking for this?