Tribute to a good neighbor...

We try to encourage our children to be independent. Combined with a little creativity, this can be a good thing.

Recently, Andrew had a gig with Active Ingredients and Sam had a black belt ceremony to attend (not his). Around 6:30, Steve and I decided to head for Ballard and the annual NW Harvest fundraising concert by NW Chorale, to put us in the holiday spirit. Maddy was working on a Mr. Ferris Project that might or might not get done by the Monday morning due date, so we left her home with strict instructions.

Keep the doors locked. Don't light candles, don't use the stove. The dog stays with you. Finish your report. Sam will be home by 8:00. Keep the doors locked.

That's the abbreviated version.

We drove away with some gray, foul-looking clouds on the horizon, found the church on the 2nd try, and slipped in, completely unnoticed, to the back row of the tightly packed sanctuary. I waved at my godfather Sam, who sings in the chorale, but he didn't wave back.

The concert was just what we needed. Short, sweet, fun, musical. Steve was handsome, the pew was comfy, the acoustics were fine, I was pretty happy. When we left, the streets were already covered with a heavy dusting of fresh snow, and everything looked perfectly Christmas-like.

The mischievous look that Maddy met us with when we arrived home set me on edge. "How'd you make out?" I asked (my kids hate it when I ask that). "OK, but I locked myself out on the deck," she said.

We have a history of getting locked out on our deck. All five of us, plus various and sundry friends and relatives, have done it. The deck sits suspended high above the back yard with no external stairs, sort of like an eagle's nest. Once you're out there, if the doors to the dining room are locked, you're out there.

"Ugh. What happened?" I groaned. "Well," she said "Don't worry, I was creative..."

When the snow began to fall, Maddy watched it from the window for a while. Snow at Christmas time is always wonderful, especially for a kid, and Seattle gets very little, usually gone by the next morning (usually!). She couldn't stand it, so she opened the deck door and held out her hand to feel the flakes fall cold and soft. Next her toes needed to feel the chill. As Danny nudged her heels, she stepped all the way out onto the deck and closed the door behind her. Click.

She quickly tried first one door, then the next, jiggling the knobs energetically. Both were locked tight. Danny sat helpfully on the other side of the glass. Dressed only in jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt, the novelty of being out in the snow soon wore off. She looked over the side of the deck. Quickly, she scaled the railing, stepped onto the side of the monkey bars (which her father wisely built for her beneath the deck boards) and flipped herself deftly down 10 feet, into the new snow. Cold! She scuttled over to where we keep a spare key, but instead of the key, a tired old spider with knobby grey knees came shuffling out of the hole. Maddy debated for one second and then raced up the path, around the fence, and straight to Patty's house next door.

Our neighbor Patty is good as gold. Better really. She's the kind of neighbor people dream of having when they first move into a house. She knows everyone on the block and all their stories. She keeps a tidy home and a beautiful, fragrant garden. And she and I routinely engage in some good, old-fashioned, neighborly sharing. I have been known to borrow eggs, milk, oil, cumin, recipes, dishes, garden tools, plants, books, and luggage, over the years. And she borrows...well, once she asked me if I had any bottled smoke flavoring that she needed for a new recipe she was trying out. I didn't have any. But, if she ever needs anything else, I'm sure she knows where to come.

We provide Patty with an endless supply of neighborly entertainment, too. She doesn’t mind Sam’s drumming one bit (except maybe not past 10 PM, please), and when Danny was just a puppy, he ran next door and stole her sandwich, right off her plate on the patio table! That was good fun. Once, Danny snuck in through her kitchen side door and ate every bit of cat food in the dish, freaking out both the cat and Hank, who thought it was an intruder. That was entertainment for Patty, Hank, AND the cat, sort of a three-for-one deal. She doesn't mind baseballs in her roses, leaves falling into her yard from our hopeless cherry tree, or dragging out our garbage and recycling cans when we go on vacation. Good as gold.

Patty opened her door and found Maddy, with a big smile, arms hugging herself tightly, and her bare toes turning bright red. "Hi Patty, isn't this snow just great? Can I borrow our house key? I seem to have locked myself out." Maddy said she knew Patty would be upset by her lack of shoes, socks, coat, hat, key, and parents, so she kept things very positive and upbeat.

Oh my.

It's good to be independent and creative. But still, we probably won't get parents-of-the-year award this time around...

Family gatherings...

Two weeks ago I sat down to Thanksgiving dinner with 28 members of my family.

Whew.

One 20 lb turkey in the oven, one 10 lb turkey on the bbq, and a large ham in the crockpot. 15 lbs of potatoes, two types of stuffing, one vat of gravy, several varieties of vegetables, baskets of bread and rolls, bowls of cranberries (canned and otherwise), plates of stuffed mushrooms, five pies - and lots and lots of wine...

We don't do this every year, but once in a while it's worth all the fuss - even necessary, I'd say - to gather together and talk to each other, see what we're up to and how much we've grown! There's only so much bonding you can do over telephone, email (or blog!)

Some of us live here, others have moved away. Some drove down from up north, others flew up from down south. But everyone eventually arrived and somehow we had room and food for us all. Four generations, all packed in the house, and laughing...

grumbling, cooking, bumping into each other in the kitchen,

shrieking, eating, sitting and watching, cleaning,

playing dress up, playing cards, playing ping pong, playing music,

sleeping, climbing, smoking, drinking, talking,

singing, smiling, spilling, washing, crying, loving,

and laughing...

"My" side of the family, with Gram on the couch in the middle, surrounded by four daughters, ten grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren (and that was only some of us!)

One week before that, we drove up to Camano Island for a pre-Thanksgiving dinner with more family, Steve's folks and sister's family and grandmothers.

Nani and Papa opened their beautiful home, spread out the food, cranked up the fireplace (for me!), put on the aprons, and cooked up a storm for us. Their house always looks lovely, with Nani's quilts and the views of the Sound, and soon the walls were ringing with kids laughing and playing pool, the girls' cell phones ringing, Jay and Andrew animatedly discussing, Sam and JJ and Maddy hollering, the grandmas reminiscing, Papa and Steve expounding, and Nani, Shelly, Gina, Glenda and I gossiping and solving the world's problems. Oh, and Danny alternately snoring and whining...

The two "Greats" flanking their four grandchildren and six great-grandchildren, with Nani and Papa in the middle, back row (that's the snoring whiner in the front!)

Yes, somehow it's all worth it, these family gatherings. We are fortunate.

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Well, this is embarassing...

Steve and I joined a coed soccer team about a year ago, at his suggestion. He thought it would be something fun for us to do together, other than play house and worry about kids and bills.

Trouble is, I don’t play soccer. But he does and he loves it – he loves the physicality of it, the being outdoors in the mud and rain, and the way his body hurts all over the day after (mine usually hurts for about a week). He says it makes him feel alive. I don’t mind it, really. I like the team – nice, fun, young folks (not one of them over 35, I’m sure) with interesting jobs and busy lives and maybe one child between them. I bet they each have a Facebook page, too.

It turns out, while I’m not in love with the sport – and certainly don’t exhibit an inclination toward a promising future – I’m remarkably adept at not getting injured. Which is saying more than it sounds like, really, because we’re chronically short on women players and the rules require at least five on the field at all times. It’s more often than not that we girls play the whole game, while the men have the luxury of subbing out as often as they need, shouting encouragement and suggestions liberally from the sidelines.

Unfortunately, Steve doesn’t have my built-in ability to avoid injury. He was out more than in for the first season, with ripped hamstrings and torn quads, and his knees (both have had arthroscopic surgery over the last couple of years) were iffy at best. But, he persevered and came up with a stretching routine that has been working fairly well. Until last night, he was on a pretty good injury-free streak. Until last night.

Steve came running...

(I love to watch him run: he keeps his head and chest forward and his arms churning rhythmically at his sides, with long, even strides – though, because he’s big, and let’s face it, old, he often churns right on by the ball and his opponent, who jukes it past, around, or through his legs. Did I mention how Young these folks are?)

...up to the ball, intent on an amazing defensive play in front of our goal, and he never saw The Beast approaching. This guy had to be 6’ 5” tall and 230 pounds, big guy, and agile, too. For his throw-ins, he first did a round-off flip, flinging the ball a full 50 yards, I’m sure. Steve and The Beast met the ball and each other in mid air, and Steve did a fancy pirouette and flipped to the ground, landing square on his hand, wrist bent back. To the rest of us, it looked like they’d konked heads, but I guess not. The Beast lumbered off and Steve was out of the game for a while. He came back in towards the end of the game, until he got kicked in the calf…

On the way home, we examined the rapidly swelling tissue on his right hand. “Looks like you sprained it,” I said. “It hurts,” he grinned. After a beer and some Aleve, he went off to bed with several ice packs, snoring blissfully.

This morning (pay attention, this is the embarrassing part), Steve got up as usual at 6:15 am to make the Two Ungrateful Boys their lunches. As he headed downstairs, he called over his shoulder, “I might need some help, Rin, I can’t move my hand.”

Humpf. It’s not really my thing, getting up at 6:15 am to help with lunches. Instead, I sometimes take on wardrobe patrol: “Where’s your coat? It’s raining, you need a coat. I bought you three coats over the last year and you can’t find one of them? Why don’t you wear my coat then, it’s hanging up over there. You need a hat. What’s wrong with that hat? Then pick a different one, this one looks fine and it’s warm.” It’s exhausting, but I can be pretty helpful in the mornings.

I got up to help. Now, I said I’m immune to injury, but last night I got my toe stepped on by The Beast, and it was pretty sore this morning. I did make the trip downstairs, but it hurt to stand at the counter and wonder what to make for Andrew, and I wasn’t even really up for the wardrobe game with Sam. Back to bed. Steve made the sandwiches by himself and, a little more slowly than usual, got ready for work and off he went.

I just got a call from Steve. He said his arm is broken and he’ll be in a cast for six to eight weeks.

The worst of it is, he won’t be able to play in the championship game next week, but I will. Me and four other girls, likely.

There’s a bruise building on my big toe, I swear.
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